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Act  II.     Scene  V. 

Maria.  Practising  behaviour  to  his  own 
shadow  (page  62). 


\    ^  S^fakeypeare^s    CoTnecly   of  ^    ; 

TWELFTH   NIGHT 

k.OR  WHAT  YOU  WILL  k. 


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The  Text  is  printed 
by  permission  from 
the  Oxford  Eaition 


1.  Maria. 

2.  Duke. 

3.  Duke. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


ACT  II.    Scene  V. 

Practising  behaviour  to  his  own  shadow  (p.  62), 

Frontispiece 


ACT  I.    Scene  I. 
So  full  of  shapes  is  fancy  (page  5), 

O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  OHvia  first  (page  6),  .        xvi 


Facing  page 

viii 


4.  Valentine.  But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk  (page  6),  xx 

Scene  II. 

5.  Viola.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ?  (page  8),  .  .  2 

Scene  III. 

6.  Sir  Toby.      With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  (page  13),       .  6 

7.  Maria.  My  name  is  Mary,  sir  (page  14),  .  .         10 

Scene  IV. 

8.  Viola.  Yet,  a  barful  strife  ! 

Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife  (page  21),      14 

Scene  V. 

9.  Maria.  Yet  you  will  be  hanged  for  being  so  long  absent 

(page  22),         .....         18 

ill 


M41890 


TWELFTH  NIGHT 

Facing  pagt 

10.  Sir  Toby.      Give  me  faith,  say  I  (page  27),     .  .  .22 

11.  Olivia.  But  we  will  draw  the  curtain  and  show  you  the  pic- 

ture (page  32),         ......        26 


ACT  II.    Scene  I. 

12.  Sebastian.  No,  sooth,  sir:   my  determinate  voyage  is  mere 

extravagancy  (page  39),  .  .  .30 

Scene  II. 

13.  Viola.  O  time!  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I  (page  44),       .        34 

Scene  III. 

14.  Clown  (sings).  That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  (page  47),    .         38 

15.  Clown  (sings).  Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting  (page  47),       .  42 

1 6.  Clown  (sings).  Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  (page  47),  46 

1 7.  Sir  Andrew.  A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight  (page  47),  50 

18.  Malvolio.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  (page  49)  .  .  54 

Scene  IV. 

19.  Clown  (sings).  Come  away,  come  away,  death  (page  56),       .        58 

20.  Clown  (sings).  1  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid  (page  56),        .         62 

21.  Clown  (sings).  Lay  me,  O,  where 

Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 

To  weep  there!  (page  57),  .  .         66 

iv 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  page 

2  2.  Viola.  She  pined  in  thought!  (page  59),         .  .         70 


Scene  V. 

23.  Malvolio.       'Tis  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune  (page  62),  .         74 

24.  Sir  Andrew.  For  many  do  call  me  fool  (page  64)       .  .         78 


ACT  III.    Scene  I. 

25.  Clown.            No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church  (page  73),  ,         82 

Scene  III. 

26.  Sebastian.       I  do  remember  (page  87),          .            .  .86 

Scene  IV. 

27.  Malvolio.       Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho  (page  89),      .            .  .90 

28.  Sir  Toby.        Now  will  not  I  deliver  his  letter  (page  96),  .         94 

29.  Olivia.  Well,  come  again  to-morrow;  fare  thee  well  (p.  98),       98 

30.  Sir  Andrew.  Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath  !  (page  102),  .       102 

ACT  IV.    Scene  II. 

31.  Clown.            Sayest  thou  that  house  is  dark  ?  (page  116),  .       106 

32.  Malvolio.       They  have  here  propertied  me;  keep  me  in 

darkness  (page  119),               .             .  .110 


TWELFTH  NIGHT 

Scene  III.  _  .  ^ 

Facing  pagt 

33.  Olivia.  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine  (page  i  2  2),         .  114 

ACT  V.    Scene  I. 

34.  Fabian.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak  (page  142),        .  118 

35.  Clown  {sings).  When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy  (page  143),  122 

36.  Clown  {sings).  For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day  (page  143),   .  126 

37.  Clown  {sings).  'Gainst   knaves   and   thieves   men   shut  their 

gate  (page  143),        .  .  .  .130 

38.  Clown  {sings).  But  when  I  came,  alas  !  to  wive  (page  144),    .  134 

39.  Clown  {sings).  But  when  I  came  unto  my  beds, 

With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  heads  (page  144),  1 38 

40.  Clown.  Our  play  is  done  (page  144),   .  .  .  142 


VI 


THE  STORY  OF   'TWELFTH    NIGHT' 

Among  the  passengers  on  board  a  ship  wrecked  in  the  Adriatic 
were  Sebastian  and  Viola,  twin  children  of  a  rich  citizen  of  Messa- 
lina.  Born  in  the  same  hour,  brother  and  sister  had  grown  up  in 
the  tenderest  mutual  love  and — what  is  stranger — in  such  likeness 
of  feature  that,  if  they  exchanged  clothes,  you  could  not  tell 
youth  from  maiden.  Nor  had  they  ever  been  parted  until  the  sea 
thus  cruelly  severed  them.  When  the  vessel  split,  Viola  managed 
to  cling  to  a  boat  which  with  a  few  survivors — the  Captain 
amongst  them — came  safely  to  shore.  '  What  coast  is  this  ? '  she 
inquired  of  the  sailors.  '  This  is  Illyria,  lady.'  Her  thoughts 
rushed  back  to  her  brother,  and  she  begged  them  to  tell  her  if 
there  were  any  chance  of  his  being  safe.  '  There  is  this  chance,' 
answered  the  Captain  ;  'at  the  last  moment  I  saw  him  take  rope 
and  bind  himself  very  coolly  and  bravely  to  a  stout  spar,  and 
upon  this  he  was  afloat  and  alive  while  from  our  boat  I  could 
keep  him  in  sight.'  Even  for  this  hope  Viola  was  so  grateful  that 
she  pressed  money  into  the  man's  hand.  '  Do  you  know  this 
country  ? '  *  I  know  it  well,  madam  ;  for  I  was  born  and  bred 
scarcely  three  hours'  journey  from  this  very  spot.'  She  asked  by 
whom  it  was  governed  ?  The  Captain  told  her,  by  a  noble  Duke, 
Orsino  ;  a  bachelor  and  a  love-sick  one,  for  he  had  fixed  his  affec- 
tions on  a  fair  lady  who  would  have  none  of  him,  and  indeed  had 
abjured  the  society  and  sight  of  all  men  save  those  of  her  own 
household.  The  name  of  this  lady  was  the  Countess  Olivia, 
and  she  thus  cloistered  herself  in  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  a  brother, 
lately  dead. 

Viola,  who  just  now  could  understand  such  sorrow  only  too 
well,  longed  to  enter  the  service  of  this  lady.  The  Captain 
answered  that  it  could  hardly  be  compassed,  for  the  Countess 

vii 


TWELFTH   NIGHT 

Olivia  refused  to  see  any  petitioners.  She  determined  therefore 
to  enter,  if  she  could,  the  Duke's  service — and  this,  it  seemed  to 
her,  could  most  easily  be  managed  in  the  guise  of  a  page.  She 
liked  the  sea-captain,  whom  she  perceived  to  be  well  disposed  to 
her ;  and  with  an  offer  of  money  she  begged  him  to  procure  her 
a  suit  of  clothes  as  similar  as  possible  to  her  lost  brother's,  and 
afterwards  to  present  her  to  the  Duke  Orsino  as  a  singing-boy ; 
'  for,'  said  she,  '  if  music  be  a  cure  for  his  malady,  I  can  sing 
prettily  and  play  to  him  on  many  instruments.' 

The  Captain  fell  in  with  her  scheme.  The  clothes  were 
bought,  and  Viola,  attired  as  a  boy,  was  presented  and  received 
into  service  under  the  feigned  name  of  Cesario.  The  Duke  in- 
deed, who  was  neglecting  all  serious  business  and  all  manly  sports 
to  moon  over  his  love-lornness,  soon  took  a  marvellous  fancy  to 
this  pretty  page,  so  sympathetical,  so  patient  in  listening  to  his 
sighs  and  complaints.  He  made  Cesario  his  favourite,  his  con- 
fidant, and  at  length  one  day  he  begged  her  to  wait  on  the 
Countess  and  plead  his  suit.  '  No  one  can  plead  it  so  well  as 
you,  to  whom  I  have  unclasped  the  secrets  of  my  very  soul.' 
'  But  she  will  not  admit  me,'  pleaded  Viola.  *  You  must  insist. 
She  will  listen  when  once  you  have  gained  her  presence ;  your 
girlish  looks  and  voice  will  touch  her  as  no  man  could  hope  to.' 
Viola  consented — yet  with  a  sigh.  The  truth  was,  she  had  been 
playing  with  danger,  and  while  listening  to  Orsino's  discourse  of 
his  passion  for  Olivia,  had  herself  fallen  more  than  half  in  love 
with  him ! 

Now  this  inaccessible  Countess  harboured  within  her  own 
doors  a  strange  company,  whose  jests  and  drinkings  and  merry- 
makings jarred  upon  her  constant  sorrow  even  as  the  mournful- 
ness  surrounding  her  lay  irksome  upon  their  mirth.  There  was, 
first  of  all,  her  uncle.  Sir  Toby  Belch,  a  disreputable  old  toper 
who  kept  unhallowed  hours  ;  and  Sir  Toby  had  for  friend  and 
companion  a  vain,  silly,  cockscombical  knight,  Sir  Andrew 
Aguecheek,  whom  he  partly  liked  for  his  absurdities  and  partly 
despised.  Add  to  these  a  roguish  servant  called  Fabian — the 
two  knights  were  not  above  jesting  with  servants — and  a  Clown, 
viii 


Act  I.     Scene  I. 
Duke.   So  full  of  shapes  is  fancy 

(page  5)- 


THE  STORY 

or  jester,  whom  Olivia  kept  because  it  was  the  fashion  in  great 
houses :  and  this  Clown  was  in  many  ways  the  wisest  of  the 
crew,  only  the  melancholy  of  the  house  kept  him  moping.  At 
times  he  would  venture  a  quaint  saying  to  cheer  '  madonna,'  as 
he  called  his  truly  loved  mistress ;  but,  as  our  poet  has  said 
elsewhere,  'a  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear,'  and  when  she 
turned  away  coldly,  without  smiling,  he  felt  snubbed,  and  sought 
to  dull  the  pain  of  it  by  joining  the  others,  who  were  thicker- 
skinned,  in  their  revels.  In  these  revels,  too,  Olivia's  waiting- 
woman  Maria  sometimes  took  a  share;  and  their  whole  behaviour 
was  a  scandal  to  a  personage  whom  we  must  mention  last — 
Malvolio,  the  Countess  Olivia's  steward  ;  a  grave,  consequential 
man,  wrapped  up  in  self-conceit  and  self-importance,  but  sincerely 
devoted  to  his  mistress  and  jealous  for  the  household  decorum, 
for  which  indeed  he  was  responsible.  He  looked  sourly  on  the 
revellers,  though  with  some  helplessness,  for  he  could  not  turn 
out  his  mistress's  uncle,  or  prevent  his  encouraging  the  others  :  and 
the  revellers  detested  Malvolio  for  a  kill-joy,  and  were  always  on 
the  lookout  to  discomfit  him. 

Malvolio  had  been  reproving  the  Clown  in  Olivia's  presence, 
and  Olivia  had  just  had  occasion  to  chide  Sir  Toby  for  drunken- 
ness, when  this  domestic  scene  was  ended  by  Viola's  knocking  at 
the  gate.  Viola,  uneasy  at  discovering  her  own  secret,  had  fallen 
to  a  somewhat  reckless  mood,  as  though  that  would  help  her  to 
cover  up  the  trouble  of  it.  In  this  mood  she  knocked ;  and 
when  Malvolio  refused  her  admittance,  refused  on  her  part  to 
take  '  no '  for  an  answer.  This  boldness  succeeded,  and  Olivia, 
veiling  her  face,  at  length  consented  to  see  the  messenger.  Viola, 
still  reckless,  on  being  admitted  started  straightway  with  a  high- 
flown  fantastic  address,  full  of  courtier-like  compliments.  The 
veiled  lady  let  her  eyes  dwell  on  the  supposed  boy,  at  first  in 
amusement  at  his  absurdities  of  talk  ;  but  as  Viola  grew  bolder 
this  amusement  gave  way  to  a  deeper  interest,  and  by  and  by, 
when  Viola  grew  very  bold  indeed  and  commanded  her  to  unveil. 
Olivia  meekly  obeyed.  *  But  I  cannot  love  your  master,'  said  she, 
'and  he  might  have  taken  that  answer  long  ago.'  '  If  I  loved  you 
b  ix 


TWELFTH    NIGHT 

as  my  master  does,'  said  Viola,  '  I  would  hear  no  such  answer.  I 
would  build  me  a  cabin  of  willows  at  your  gate,  and  call  upon 
you,  my  soul,  that  my  voice  should  reach  you  within  the  house. 
I  would  write  songs  of  my  love  and  sing  them  loudly  even  in  the 
dead  of  the  night  I  would  halloo  your  name  to  the  hills  and 
make  the  echoes  cry  out  "  Olivia  !  "  Oh,  you  should  have  no  rest 
upon  earth  or  under  heaven  until  you  had  pity ! '  *  You  might 
do  much,'  said  Olivia  pensively,  for  her  heart  moved  strangely 
towards  this  Cesario.  '  What  is  your  parentage? '  she  asked.  '  It 
is  above  my  fortunes,  and  yet  my  state  is  well  enough.  I  am 
a  gentleman.'  *  Go  to  your  master,  and  say  that  I  cannot  love 
him.  Tell  him  to  send  no  more ' — but  here  Olivia  weakened  and 
added — '  unless  perchance  you  come  again  to  report  how  he  takes 
it'  '  Farewell,  Fair  Cruelty  ! ' — Back  hied  Viola,  little  thinking 
what  a  strange  shaft  she  had  left  rankling  in  Olivia's  bosom.  She 
had  gone  but  a  little  way,  however,  when  she  heard  a  voice  calling 
after  her,  and  turned  to  see  the  steward,  Mai  vol  io,  following. 
'Were  you  not  just  now  with  the  Countess  Olivia?'  asked 
Malvolio.  '  I  was.'  '  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir.  You 
might  have  saved  me  the  pains  to  have  taken  it  away  yourself.' 
Now  Viola  knew  that  she  had  given  Olivia  no  ring,  and  so  she 
was  about  to  answer ;  but  on  the  instant  her  quick  woman's  wit 
divined  that  here  must  be  some  secret  message.  So  she  checked 
herself,  and  answered  instead  :  '  She  took  the  ring  of  me.  I  will 
none  of  it'  '  Come,  sir,'  replied  Malvolio,  '  you  peevishly  threw 
it  at  her ;  and  her  will  is  it  should  be  so  returned.'  These  last 
words  and  the  action  that  went  with  them  were  doubtless  sug- 
gested rather  by  his  own  sense  of  importance  than  by  any  command 
of  his  mistress.  He  cast  the  ring  on  the  ground  at  Viola's  feet 
'  If  it  be  worth  stooping  for,  there  it  lies  in  your  eye,'  said  he ;  '  if 
not,  let  it  be  his  that  finds  it' — and  with  that  he  marched  off 
pompously. 

Viola,  who  felt  no  touchy  sensitiveness  at  being  insulted  by 
such  a  person  as  Malvolio,  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  '  I  left  no 
ring  with  this  lady,'  she  mused.  'What  can  she  mean  by  this?' 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  the  truth  struck  her.     '  She  loves  me.     Poor 

X 


THE  STORY 

lady,  she  might  as  well  love  a  dream ! '  and  she  resumed  her  way 
back  to  the  Duke's  palace,  between  laughing  and  sighing  over  the 
waywardness  of  her  sex.  Already  she  began  to  repent  her  boy's 
dress. 

She  informed  the  Duke  how  ill  she  had  fared.  He  fell  back 
on  his  old  solace  of  commanding  music  to  be  played  to  him,  and 
whilst  it  was  playing,  '  Ah,  boy ! '  said  he  to  Viola, '  if  ever  thou 
fall  in  love,  let  the  sweet  pangs  of  it  remind  thee  of  me.  What 
thinkest  thou  of  this  tune  ? '  *  My  lord,  it  gives  the  heart's  very 
echo  of  love.'  'That's  well  spoken  and  knowledgably,'  said 
Orsino.  *  My  life  upon  it,  Cesario,  young  though  thou  art,  thou 
too  hast  loved  I  Eh,  boy  ? '  *  A  little,  by  your  favour,'  owned 
Viola.  'What  kind  of  woman?  and  of  what  age?'  'Of  your 
complexion,  my  lord,  and  of  your  age  too,'  confessed  poor  Viola 
sadly.  '  She  is  too  old  for  thee,'  the  Duke  rallied  her ;  '  for  women 
are  but  as  roses,  blooming  an  hour  and  withering  the  next.' 
'  They  are  so,  alas  I '  sighed  Viola  ;  but  Orsino,  not  heeding  her 
pain,  called  for  another  song  and  bade  her  listen.  '  Mark  it, 
Cesario ;  it  is  an  old  song  and  simple.  Poor  women  sing  it  as 
they  sit  by  their  doors  in  the  sun,  knitting  or  spinning;  and 
maids  yet  fancy-free,  that  weave  their  thread  with  bone,  chant  it 
too — a  silly  song,  that  plays  with  the  innocence  of  love  as  it  was 
in  the  old  times.'     And  this  was  the  song  he  commanded : — 

Come  away,  come  away,  death, 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid  ; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid — 

*  Ah,  "  Fair  Cruelty  "  I '  thought  Viola. 

My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O,  prepare  it ! 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it ! 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet. 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown  ; 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown  : 

xi 


TWELFTH    NIGHT 

A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 

To  weep  there  ! 

*  Cesario,'  said  the  Duke,  *  you  must  go  plead  with  Olivia  again. 
'But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir?'  'I  cannot  take  that  answer 
from  her.'  Viola  remembered  how,  in  pressing  his  suit  with 
Olivia,  she  had  used  almost  these  very  words ;  but  she  shook  her 
head.  '  You  must,  sir.  Say  now,'  she  added  a  little  pitifully, 
'  suppose  some  lady  should  love  you  as  you  love  Olivia  (and 
belike  there  is  one  that  does) — why,  then,  you  cannot  love  her  ; 
you  tell  her  so,  and  must  not  that  answer  content  her?'  Orsino 
denied  that  any  woman  had  a  heart  big  enough  to  contain  such 
love  as  his — a  protestation  which  Viola  could  not  help  doubting. 
'  Ay,  but  I  know — '  she  began  pensively.  *  What  do  you  know  ? ' 
interrupted  the  Duke.  '  Too  well  I  know  what  love  women  may 
hold  for  men.  They  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we.  My  father  had 
a  daughter  loved  a  man,  as  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  love  your  lordship.'  'Tell  me  her  history.'  'A  blank, 
my  lord,'  was  Viola's  response — brave,  though  her  lip  trembled  a 
little.  '  She  never  told  her  love,  but  let  concealment,  like  a  worm 
in  the  bud,  prey  upon  her  damask  cheek.  She  pined  alone  in 
thought,  and,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy,  sat  like 
Patience  sculptured  on  a  monument,  smiling  at  grief  My  lord, 
was  not  this  love  indeed  ?  We  men  may  say  more,  may  swear 
more ;  but  love  is  more  than  vowing.*  '  But  did  she  die  of  her 
love,  this  sister  of  thine  ? '  asked  the  Duke.  '  I  am  all  the  daughters 
of  my  father's  house,'  was  Viola's  reply, '  and  all  the  brothers  too. 
And  yet,'  she  added,  *  I  know  not.'  For  she  would  not  quite  lose 
hope  that  Sebastian  lived. 

By  the  Duke's  command  she  had  now  to  pay  a  second  visit 
to  Olivia,  But  in  the  meantime,  and  before  she  arrived,  some 
strange  doings  were  on  foot  in  that  lady's  household.  Sir  Toby 
and  Sir  Andrew,  sitting  up  late  one  night  and  carousing,  had 
chosen  to  sing  catches  in  their  cups,  and  the  noise  of  it  had 
fetched  Malvolio  out  of  his  bed  and  downstairs.  '  My  masters, 
xii 


THE  STORY 

are  you  mad  ?  '  he  asked,  trembling  with  passion  so  that  the  bed- 
room candle  shook  in  his  hand.  '  Have  ye  no  wit,  manners,  nor 
honesty,  that  ye  gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night  and  turn 
my  lady's  house  into  an  alehouse?  Is  there  no  respect  of  place, 
persons,  nor  time  in  you  ? '  Sir  Toby  hiccupped  that  they  kept 
time  in  their  catches,  at  any  rate.  '  Sir  Toby,'  said  the  incensed 
steward,  '  I  must  be  plain  with  you.  My  lady  bade  me  tell  you 
that,  though  she  harbours  you  as  her  kinsman,  she  can  very  well 
do  without  your  misbehaviour.  If  you  can  wean  yourself  from 
this,  you  are  welcome  to  stay  in  her  house  ;  if  not,  she  is  very 
willing  to  accept  your  leave  and  bid  you  farewell.'  '  Farewells 
dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs  be  gone!'  trolled  Sir  Toby,  un- 
abashed, and  MalvoHo  stalked  upstairs  again  in  dudgeon.  But 
his  threats  had  frightened  the  roisterers  somewhat,  and  their  dis- 
taste of  him  moved  them  more.  With  the  help  of  Maria  they 
hatched  a  plot  against  him.  She  could  imitate  the  Countess 
Olivia's  handwriting,  and  she  proposed  to  them  to  concoct  a  letter 
full  of  obscure  hints  of  love,  and  to  drop  it  in  Malvolio's  way. 
Being,  as  she  put  it,  such  an  affected  ass  and  so  crammed  with 
conceit  of  himself,  he  would  surely  be  deluded  and  imagine  his 
mistress  enamoured  of  him.  The  others  applauded  the  sport  and 
her  wit.  The  letter  was  soon  composed  and  sealed  with  the 
Countess's  seal ;  and  early  next  morning  Maria  dropped  it  in  one 
of  the  garden  alleys  where  Malvolio  took  his  customary  walk, 
and  where  under  covert  of  a  box-hedge  the  conspirators  posted 
themselves  to  listen  and  watch  the  event.  In  due  time  the 
steward  approached,  frowning,  grimacing,  and  muttering  to  him- 
self: for,  as  Maria  had  guessed,  he  was  already  half-inclined  to 
fancy  that  his  mistress  affected  him.  '  He  has  been  standing  in 
the  sun  this  half-hour,'  she  reported,  '  practising  behaviour  to  hi.s 
own  shadow.  Keep  close,  now  ;  for  here  comes  a  trout  that  must 
be  caught  with  tickling.'  Along  came  Malvolio :  he  was  still  in- 
censed at  last  night's  riot,  and  he  strode  down  the  path  promising 
himself  aloud  what  short  work  he  would  make  of  the  offenders 
if  it  were  ever  his  good  fortune  to  sit  beside  the  Countess  as  her 
consort ;  and  especially  how  he  would  deal  sternly  with  '  Kins- 

xiii 


TWELFTH    NIGHT 

man  Toby  ' — a  familiarity  at  which  Sir  Toby,  overhearing,  could 
scarcely  contain  himself,  and  had  to  be  forcibly  pulled  back 
behind  the  bush.  Just  then  Malvolio  spied  the  letter,  stooped 
and  picked  it  up.  It  was  addressed  '  To  the  Unknown  Beloved^ 
this,  and  my  good  ivishes!  He  turned  it  over;  recognised,  kissed, 
and  broke  the  seal. 

The  epistle  opened  with  some  silly  verses — 

I  may  command  where  I  adore  ; 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore  : 

M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life. 

The  steward  mused:  'If  this  should  be  thee,  Malvolio?  .  .  . 
"  I  may  command  where  I  adore " — Why,  she  may  command 
ine\  I  am  her  servant.  "  M,  O,  A,  I  " — M,  why  that  begins  my 
name.  .  .  .'  His  doubts  began  to  give  way  to  ecstasy.  Some 
prose  followed — '  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness :  some  are  born  great, 
some  achieve  greatness,  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them.  Fate 
promises  thee  great  things:  deserve  them.  Be  opposite  with  a 
kinsman — why,  that 's  Sir  Toby,  of  course.  Remember  who 
commended  thy  yellow  stockings,  and  wished  to  see  thee  ever 
cross-gartered.  If  thou  entertainest  my  love,  let  it  appear  in  thy 
smiling:  thy  smiles  become  thee  well ;  therefore  in  my  presence 
still  smile,  dear  my  sweet,  I  prithee.  {Signed)  The  Fortunate  Un- 
happy' Malvolio  could  doubt  no  longer.  He  hurried  to  the 
house,  clasping  the  letter  to  his  breast,  and  the  conspirators 
tumbled  out  of  hiding  and  laughed  until  they  cried.  '  Ah 
but  wait  and  mark  him  when  he  next  comes  into  my  lady's 
presence ! '  said  Maria.  '  He  will  come  in  yellow  stockings,  a 
colour  she  abhors ;  and  cross-gartered,  a  fashion  she  detests  ;  and 
he  will  smile  upon  her  till,  in  her  grief,  it  maddens  her.' 

But  the  two  knights.  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew,  were  presently 
to  laugh  (as  the  saying  is)  on  the  other  side  of  their  faces.  For 
just  now  arrived  Viola,  on  her  second  visit  to  the  Countess,  and 
was  so  graciously  received  and  taken  into  the  orchard  for  a  private 
talk,  that  the  pair  began  to  grow  uneasy.  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek, 
it  should  be  said,  had  pretensions  to  Olivia's  hand,  and  Sir  Toby 
xiv 


THE   STORY 

favoured  his  suit.  To  them  this  affable  welcome  looked 
suspicious. 

Could  they  have  heard  what  passed  in  the  orchard,  they  would 
have  been  more  than  uneasy.  For  no  sooner  did  Viola  begin  to 
plead  again  for  her  master,  than  Olivia  interrupted  her,  saying, 
'  O,  by  your  leave  !  I  commanded  you  never  to  speak  of  him 
again.  .  .  .  But  if  you  would  undertake  another  suit,  I  had  rather 
listen  to  it  than  to  music  from  the  spheres.'  By  those  and  other 
words  she  disclosed  her  heart  so  plainly  that  Viola  could  not 
affect  to  mistake  it.  In  her  perplexity  she  made  pretence  to  be 
annoyed.  '  Madam,  you  would  make  a  fool  of  me ! '  But  the 
bewitched  Olivia  could  see  nothing  but  beauty  in  the  angry  young 
face.  *  Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring — by  maidenhood, 
honour,  truth — I  love  thee :  hear  me  swear  it ! ' 

Viola  escaped  from  the  orchard  as  best  she  could.  The  poor 
maiden  had  enough  to  distract  her  just  now;  and  it  was  as  well 
she  could  not  guess  what  new  troubles  were  brewing  ;  that,  while 
she  talked  with  Olivia  in  the  orchard.  Sir  Toby  had  been  working 
upon  Aguecheek's  jealousy,  and  had  at  length  persuaded  him,  but 
with  some  difficulty — for  this  knight  was  an  arrant  coward — to 
challenge  the  pretty  page  to  a  duel ! 

Olivia,  too,  was  to  have  her  temper  sorely  tried,  and  just  now 
while  smarting  with  the  wound  of  rejected  love.  She  sent  Maria 
to  fetch  Malvolio  to  discuss  with  him  what  entertainment  might 
be  prepared  for  the  youth  on  his  next  visit.  *  He  is  coming, 
madam,*  Maria  reported  ;  '  but  sure  he  is  very  strange  in  his 
manner.  I  doubt  his  wits  must  be  affected.'  Malvolio  entered, 
smirking  and  smiling :  he  had  donned  his  yellow  stockings,  and 
was  cross-gartered  so  tightly  that  he  could  scarcely  bend  his 
legs.  '  How  now,  Malvolio  ! '  '  Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho  ! '  '  Why, 
man,  what  is  the  matter  with  thee?'  Still  Malvolio  kept  smiling 
and  kissing  his  hand.  '  Heaven  help  thee ! ' — Olivia  began  to 
feel  sure  he  was  out  of  his  mind.  *  "  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness," ' 
quoted  Malvolio,  blowing  another  kiss.  '  What  in  the  world  dost 
thou  mean  ? '  *  "  Some  achieve  greatness." '  *  Eh  ? '  • "  And  some 
have  greatness  thrust  upon  them." '     '  Now  heaven  restore  thee  to 

XV 


TWELFTH   NIGHT 

thy  senses!'  MalvoHo  cast  an  eye  down  over  his  legs  and  ogled 
his  mistress  again.  '  Who  commended  these  yellow  stockings  ? 
Who  wished  to  see  me  cross-gartered  ? '  he  inquired  playfully. 
'  Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness ! '  exclaimed  Olivia. 
'  Maria,  tell  the  servants  to  look  to  this  poor  man.  Bid  them  be 
very  careful  of  him,  as  you  all  know  that  I  value  him ! '  She 
withdrew  to  her  room,  almost  overwhelmed. 

Folks,  though  not  meaning  unkindly,  had  in  those  days 
extremely  rough  and  ready  methods  of  dealing  with  madness ; 
and  our  conspirators  wanted  no  more  excuse  than  the  Countess's 
word.  •  Poor  fellow !  there  is  nothing  for  him,  we  fear,  but  the 
dark  room,  and  binding  his  limbs,'  suggested  Sir  Toby;  and 
plying  him  with  questions  about  his  health,  despite  his  protests, 
the  whole  party  flung  themselves  on  the  unhappy  steward,  and 
dragged  him  to  a  dark  pantry,  where  they  tossed  him  a  little  straw, 
and  locked  him  in.  The  room  had  but  one  small  barred  window, 
and  by  this  the  Clown  seated  himself  and  mocked  his  ravings 
for  justice. 

Sir  Toby  would  have  stayed  too,  but  he  had  other  business 
on  foot.  Keeping  his  hold  on  Sir  Andrew — who  already  repented 
having  written  a  challenge — and  posting  him  in  the  orchard,  he 
and  Fabian  together  waylaid  Viola.  '  Sir,'  they  said,  accosting 
her,  '  you  are  challenged  to  fight ;  and  your  challenger,  thirsting 
for  blood,  awaits  you  even  now  at  the  orchard  end.'  '  You  mis- 
take, sirs,'  answered  Viola;  'no  man,  I  am  sure,  has  any  quarrel 
with  me.'  '  You  will  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure  you,'  was  the 
reply.  *  But  who  can  want  to  fight  with  me  ? '  'A  knight,  and 
the  very  devil  in  a  quarrel.  Three  men  he  hath  slain  already 
in  duels.'  '  I  am  no  fighter,'  poor  Viola  pleaded ;  '  I  will  return 
to  the  house  and  desire  the  Countess  to  give  me  safe  conduct.' 
*  Indeed  you  shall  not,  unless  you  will  fight  with  me  too,'  Sir  Toby 
assured  her ;  and  leaving  her  in  charge  of  Fabian,  he  went  off  to 
fetch  Sir  Andrew. 

Now  was  Viola  in  a  dreadful  case  ;  and  Sir  Andrew,  when  led 
forward,  appeared  little  happier,  for  Sir  Toby  had  been  playing  on 
his  fears,  telling  him  that  this  girlish-looking  boy  was  verily  a 
xvi 


Act  I.     Scene  I. 
Duke.   O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia 
first  (page  6) 


THE  STORY 

swashbuckler. — 'They  say  he  has  been  fencer  to  the  Sultan  of 
Turkey.'  Sir  Andrew  turned  pale  and  groaned.  '  Had  I  thought 
him  so  valiant,  I  'd  never  have  meddled  with  him.  Let  him  let  the 
matter  slip,  and  I  '11  give  him  my  horse,  grey  Capilet ! '  As  for 
Viola,  her  knees  shook  under  her;  she  could  hardly  grasp  her 
rapier.  She  saw  no  hope  but  to  break  down  and  confess  she  was 
a  woman.  But  at  that  moment  deliverance  came.  At  a  sudden 
cry  she  turned,  as  a  stranger — a  man  she  had  never  seen — came 
running  into  the  orchard  and  faced  Sir  Andrew,  calling,  *  Put  up 
your  sword,  sir!  If  this  young  gentleman  have  done  you  an 
offence,  I  take  it  on  me  ;  or  if  you  have  injured  him,  for  him 
I  defy  you  ! ' — and,  with  that,  he  drew  his  sword.  '  You,  sir  ? 
Who  are  you  ?  '  demanded  Sir  Toby  in  a  rage.  The  stranger 
turned  on  him — '  One,  sir,  that  is  as  good  as  his  word,  and  better.' 
Sir  Toby  drew  also,  and  the  pair  were  about  to  fight,  when  Fabian 
gave  a  shout,  catching  sight  of  two  officers  of  justice  at  the  gate 
of  the  orchard.  The  leader  of  these  pointed  ;  and  the  second, 
running  and  clapping  a  hand  on  the  stranger's  shoulder,  thus 
addressed  him, — '  Antonio,  I  arrest  you  upon  the  suit  of  the  Count 
Orsino.'  *  You  mistake  me,'  said  the  stranger.  *  We  make  no 
mistake,'  the  officer  replied,  and  charged  him  with  being  Antonio, 
a  sea-captain  who  had  done  the  Count  notable  damage.  '  I  must 
obey  them,'  said  the  stranger,  turning  on  Viola.  '  This  comes  of 
searching  for  you.  And  now  I  must  ask  you  for  my  purse ;  but, 
believe  me,  it  grieves  me  much  more  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you 
than  for  what  happens  to  me.  You  stand  amazed,  but  take  com- 
fort.' Viola  was  indeed  amazed.  She  knew  nothing  of  this  man 
who  had  so  strangely  interfered  to  protect  her,  and  so  she  was 
obliged  to  say ;  at  the  same  time,  in  gratitude  she  offered  him  half 
of  the  little  money  she  carried.  The  stranger  drew  back  in  scorn- 
ful anger.  'What!  do  you  deny  me?  Is  it  possible  you  can 
treat  me  thus,  after  the  kindness  I  have  shown  you  ? '  *  Indeed, 
sir,  I  know  you  not.'  '  O  heavens  ! ' — the  man  swung  round  upon 
the  officers  of  justice,  protesting  that  he  had  snatched  this  youth 
from  the  jaws  of  death  and  done  him  loving  service.  '  Sebastian,' 
he  added  bitterly,  *  thou  hast  a  fair  face,  but  shamest  it' — then, 
c  xvii 


TWELFTH    NIGHT 

turning  to  the  officers  again,  he  dropped  his  head  in  utter  dejec- 
tion, saying, '  Lead  me  away.' 

In  her  bewilderment  Viola  caught  at  the  name  of  Sebastian. 
*  Can  it  be,'  she  wondered, '  that  my  brother  yet  lives,  and  this 
Antonio  mistakes  me  for  him  ?  '  Fired  with  this  sudden  thought, 
she  ran  out  of  the  orchard,  to  overtake  the  officers  if  she  could. 
But  they  had  ridden  away  with  their  prisoner. 

She  had  guessed  rightly  :  Sebastian  was  indeed  alive  and  well. 
We  will  go  back  and  follow  his  fortunes.  The  mast  to  which  he 
had  bound  himself  when  the  ship  broke  up  drifted  out  to  sea  and 
providentially  bore  him  across  the  track  of  another  ship,  which  had 
ridden  out  the  storm.  The  master  of  this  vessel  was  Antonio, 
who  not  only  rescued  the  youth  but  conceived  a  warm  liking  for 
him :  insomuch  that  when  Sebastian,  seeking  to  know  if  his  sister 
yet  lived,  announced  that  he  must  go  at  all  costs  to  Illyria,  to  the 
Duke's  court,  Antonio  engaged  to  make  a  voyage  thither;  '  though,' 
said  he,  *  I  have  many  enemies  there,  and  shall  not  walk  the  streets 
of  the  town  without  risk,  by  reason  that  I  once  did  some  service  in 
a  sea-fight  against  Orsino's  galleys,  being  one  of  a  boarding-party 
in  resisting  whom  the  Duke's  own  nephew  took  a  severe  wound.' 
Sebastian  tried  to  dissuade  him  from  running  into  this  danger : 
but  without  avail.  Nevertheless  when  at  length  they  reached  the 
port,  Antonio  took  a  quiet  lodging  in  the  suburbs  and  avoided  the 
streets — intrusting  his  purse  to  Sebastian,  who  had  no  such  reason 
for  hiding.  But  by  and  by,  as  his  friend  did  not  return,  he  grew 
anxious  and  sallied  out  in  search  of  him — with  the  result  we 
have  seen. 

Sebastian  at  the  time  of  Antonio's  arrest  in  the  orchard, 
happened  to  be  quite  close  at  hand,  and  indeed  at  that  moment 
was  being  drawn,  on  his  part  too,  into  a  comedy  of  errors ;  a 
very  pretty  series  of  confusions,  all  due  to  his  likeness  to  his 
sister.  For,  chancing  to  pass  by  Olivia's  house,  he  was  accosted 
by  the  Clown,  whom  the  Countess  had  withdrawn  from  watching 
Malvolio  to  carry  yet  another  message  to  her  disdainful  love. 
'  Your  mistress  desires  me  to  come  to  her?'  said  Sebastian  in 
some  astonishment. — '  But  I  know  her  not,  nor  can  she  know  me  : 
xviii 


THE  STORY 

there  must  be  some  mistake.'  *  Oho ! '  replied  the  Clown. — *  Your 
name  is  not  Cesario  ?  Then  this  nose  on  my  face  is  not  my 
nose!'  'You  are  a  foolish  knave,'  threatened  Sebastian,  'and 
will  get  trounced  if  you  try  me  with  more  of  this  nonsense.' 

In  the  midst  of  their  disputing  who  should  come  in  sight  but 
Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  ?  This  worthy,  on  seeing  Viola  escape 
from  the  orchard,  had  made  the  discovery  that  his  late  opponent 
was  but  a  coward  after  all :  whereon,  encouraged  by  Sir  Toby 
and  Fabian,  he  recovered  his  own  valour.  "Slid,  I'll  after  the 
fellow  again  and  beat  him  ! '  '  Do  so  !  do  so  ! '  applauded  the 
others,  and  off  he  started  in  pursuit.  Turning  a  corner  of  the 
house,  catching  sight  of  Sebastian,  and  never  doubting,  he  struck 
him  a  blow,  crying, '  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ?  There 's 
for  you  ! '  *  Why,  and  there 's  for  thee  !  and  there  !  and  there ! ' 
retorted  Sebastian,  catching  him  by  the  collar  and  giving  him  a 
sound  thrashing.  '  Are  all  these  people  mad  ! '  panted  he.  Sir 
Toby  and  Fabian  now  ran  up  and  tried  to  interpose.  *  I  '11  have 
an  action  for  battery,'  whimpered  Sir  Andrew.  '  Come,  my  young 
soldier,  out  with  your  sword  ! '  challenged  Sir  Toby,  drawing  and 
waving  his  weapon  in  Sebastian's  face. 

The  Clown  had  run  indoors  to  fetch  his  mistress,  and  she 
appeared  from  the  house  just  in  time  to  prevent  bloodshed. 
Needless  to  say,  she  too  mistook  Sebastian  for  Cesario :  and 
having  commanded  Sir  Toby  to  put  up  his  sword  and  begone 
with  the  others  out  of  her  sight,  she  turned  tenderly  upon  the 
young  man.  '  Be  not  offended,  dearest  Cesario !  but  come  with 
me  into  the  house,  when  I  will  make  all  the  amends  that  love 
may.'  '  Am  I  mad,  or  dreaming  ? '  marvelled  Sebastian  ;  but, 
looking  on  the  lady,  he  added,  *  If  this  be  a  dream  it  is  a  mighty 
pleasant  one,  and  I  would  go  on  sleeping ! '  Within  the  house 
Olivia's  endearments  became  yet  warmer,  and  joy  sparkled  in  her 
eyes  to  find  her  beloved  Cesario  in  a  melting  mood  as  never 
before.  Clearly  this  lady  held  sway  over  a  great  house,  with 
servants  who  obeyed  her  readily  as  she  ordered  them  rationally. 
Except  for  this  unaccountable  sudden  passion  Sebastian  could 
perceive  no  symptom  of  madness.     In  fine,  he  resolved  to  accept 

xix 


TWELFTH    NIGHT 

his  good  fortune,  and  when  Olivia,  in  dread  that  his  heart  might 
harden  again,  proposed  to  fetch  a  priest  and  be  married  forthwith, 
he  very  gracefully  assented. 

The  ceremony  over,  he  begged  leave  to  go  to  Antonio's 
lodgings  and  tell  his  friend  this  amazing  news.  He  had  scarcely 
departed  on  this  errand  before  the  Duke  Orsino  himself,  with 
Viola  and  his  court,  arrived  at  the  Countess's  house  to  beg  an 
audience,  and  was  overtaken  at  the  door  by  the  officers  of  justice 
who  had  been  seeking  him  with  their  prisoner.  On  being  charged 
with  his  offence,  and  asked  how  he  dared  to  show  his  face  in 
Illyria,  Antonio  scarcely  troubled  to  defend  himself,  but 
maddened  at  the  sight  of  Viola,  broke  out  into  a  passion  of 
reproaches,  recounting  the  tale  of  his  services  to  this  ungrateful 
boy  and  how  treacherously  they  had  been  rewarded.  The 
entrance  of  Olivia  put  a  period  to  the  Duke's  interest  in  his 
prisoner's  story.  '  Here  comes  the  Countess ! — ah,  now  heaven 
walks  on  earth !  But  as  for  thee,  fellow,  thy  words  are  mere 
madness.  Thou  sayest  that  for  these  three  months  thou  and  this 
boy  have  never  been  parted.  I  answer  that  for  these  three 
months  he  has  attended  on  me.  But  more  of  this  later,  and  take 
him  aside ! '  Orsino  turned  eagerly  to  address  his  beloved  lady. 
But  Olivia  gave  him  no  comfort.  She  demanded,  indeed,  to 
know  why  he  thus  importuned  her  when  her  affections  utterly 
rejected  him,  and  while  she  spoke,  her  eyes  sought  Cesario,  who, 
to  her  growing  indignation,  seemed  to  have  turned  as  cold  as 
ever.  'Ah!'  cried  the  Duke  savagely,  'you  cannot  love  me 
because  your  heart  is  set  on  this  minion  of  mine  :  and  I  too  have 
loved  him.  But  he  shall  die  for  this  injury  he  has  done  me — 
Come,  boy!'  he  commanded.  'I  will  follow  you,'  said  Viola, 
'  and  die  a  thousand  deaths,  joyfully,  readily,  to  set  you  at  rest, 
my  lord.'  'Hold!'  interposed  the  Countess. — 'Where  are  you 
going,  Cesario?'  'After  him  I  love  better  than  life — far,  far 
better  than  ever  I  shall  love  woman  ! '  '  Deceiver ! '  exclaimed 
Olivia.  '  Why,  how  have  I  deceived  you  ? '  '  Cesario ! — husband  I  * 
she  pleaded.  '  Husband  ! ' — the  Duke  eyed  the  pair,  yet  in- 
credulous in  his  wrath.     Viola  denied  it,  but  vainly :  for  Olivia 

XX 


Act  I.     Scene  I. 

Valentine.  But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will 
veiled  walk  (page  6). 


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THE  STORY 

called  forward  the  priest  to  prove  he  had  consecrated  them  man 
and  wife  but  two  hours  before.  '  Thou  dissembling  cub ! ' 
threatened  Orsino — 'Take  her! — but  take  thyself  where  thou 
mayst  never  come  in  my  sight  again ! ' 

He  turned  to  go,  when — to  crown  all  amazement — Sir  Andrew 
Aguecheek  came  running  with  a  broken  head,  calling  for  a  surgeon  ; 
and  after  him  at  some  distance  Sir  Toby  Belch,  hurt  and  limping 
on  the  arm  of  the  Clown.  '  Who  has  hurt  you,  gentleman  ? '  They 
answered,  '  Cesario — that  devil  of  a  fellow,  Cesario ! '  They  had 
waylaid  him  again,  and  with  this  result !  '  But  here  is  Cesario  ! '  All 
stared  at  Viola  :  and  while  they  stared,  lo  !  another  Cesario  stood 
before  them !  Sebastian  entered  in  a  careless  hurry,  but  halted 
at  sight  of  so  much  company.  •  I  am  sorry,  dear  wife,'  he  excused 
himself  to  Olivia,  'to  have  hurt  your  kinsman,  but  he  forced  it 
on  me.'  Then,  catching  sight  of  Antonio,  he  ran  and  caught  his 
friend  by  both  hands.  '  Antonio  !  O  my  dear  Antonio  !  how  have 
I  been  on  the  rack  these  hours  since  I  missed  thee!'  But  Antonio's 
eyes  strayed  from  Sebastian  to  Viola  and  back ;  and  so  travelled 
the  eyes  of  all  the  others.  Sebastian's,  slowly  following  them, 
rested  on  Viola.  .  .  .  '  Most  wonderful ! '  said  the  voice  of  Olivia, 
breaking  the  long  silence  as  Sebastian  fell  back  before  this 
apparition.  '  I — I  never  had  a  brother,'  he  stammered :  '  I  had 
a  sister.  .  .  .  O,  your  name,  your  parentage ! '  'I  am  Viola,  and 
that  sister.'     The  pair  ran  to  each  other's  arms. 

Thus  all  was  explained.  Olivia  had  a  husband  :  and  Orsino 
did  not  long  want  a  wife  ;  for,  his  dear  youth  Cesario  being 
changed  into  a  beautiful  maiden,  to  her  he  transferred  his  affec- 
tions. His  passion  for  Olivia  had  been  in  great  part  a  green- 
sickness, fed  with  sighings  and  languorous  music :  now  he 
remembered  how  faithfully  Viola  had  served  him  in  her  own 
despite,  and  there  came  into  his  mind  too  how  in  many  a  tender 
little  speech  the  mock-boy  had  half-hinted,  half-hidden  a  devotion 
which  now  could  be  read  in  true  terms  of  maidenly  love.  Olivia, 
charmed  with  this  turn  of  affairs,  graciously  invited  them  within 
and  begged  that  the  same  priest  who  had  married  her  to  Sebastian 
might  now  without  delay  perform  the  like  office  for  Orsino  and 

xxi 


TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Viola  :  an  offer  which  the  Duke  as  graciously  accepted.  She  was 
about  to  summon  her  steward  and  bid  him  fetch  clothes  to  array 
the  bride,  when  she  remembered  that  poor  Malvolio  was  still 
confined  in  his  mad  cell.  *  Alas !  poor  gentleman  !  how  does  he  ? ' 
she  asked.  The  Clown  stepped  forward  and  produced  a  letter. 
'  He  hath  written  this  to  you,  madonna.'    '  Read  it'    Fabian  read  : — 

•  By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  wrong  me  ;  and  the  world  shall  know  it. 
Though  you  have  put  me  in  darkness,  and  given  your  drunken  cousin  rule 
over  me,  yet  have  I  the  benefit  of  my  senses  as  well  as  your  ladyship.  I 
have  your  own  letter  that  induced  me  to  the  semblance  I  put  on ;  and 
that  letter  will  right  me,  to  your  shame.  Forgive  me  that  I  leave  my  duty 
a  little  unthought  of  and  speak  out  of  my  injury. 

The  Madly-used  Malvolio.' 

'This  is  scarcely  a  madman's  letter,'  commented  the  Duke. 
'Fetch  him  hither,'  commanded  Olivia.  Malvolio  was  brought. 
•Madam,'  said  he  with  dignity,  'you  have  done  me  wrong — 
notorious  wrong,'  and  he  handed  her  the  letter.  'This  is  no 
writing  of  mine,  but  Maria's,'  exclaimed  the  Countess.  The  trick 
was  now  apparent,  and  the  conspirators  made  confession.  '  Madam,' 
said  the  Clown  in  exculpation,  'he  called  me  a  barren  rascal,  and 
asked  how  you  could  smile  at  me.  Tit  for  tat ;  and  thus  the 
whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his  revenges.'  Olivia  would  have  made 
the  peace,  but  the  poor  steward  could  not  be  so  easily  mollified. 
*  I  '11  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  you  ! '  he  promised,  and 
marched  away  in  the  bitterness  of  his  hurt  pride,  leaving  them  to 
their  bridal  mirth.  His  exit — poor  man ! — was  not  without 
dignity,  but  he  took  himself  too  seriously  to  be  at  home  in  gay, 
light-hearted  Illyria. 

One  John  Manningham,  a  member  of  the  Middle  Temple, 
from  January  i6oi(-2)  to  April  1603  kept  a  diary  (now  preserved 
in  the  British  Museum)  and  entered  in  it,  under  the  date  of 
Feb.  2,  i6oi(-2)  that  '  at  our  feast  we  had  a  play  called  Tuelue 
night  or  what  you  will ' — which  play  the  diary  proceeds  to  describe 
in  terms  that  leave  no  doubt  of  its  having  been  Shakespeare's. 
It  was  then  a  novelty,  and  likely  enough  had  been  first  acted 
xxii 


THE  STORY 

before  the  Court  during  the  Christmas  holidays.  We  may  even 
conjecture  that  the  title  was  taken  from  the  date  of  this  first 
performance,  since  nothing  in  the  play  suggests  it.  The  sub-title, 
What  You  Willy  belongs  to  a  fashion  which,  as  we  can  see  by 
comparing  it  with  the  names  of  the  plays  that  lie  next  before  and 
after  it  in  order  of  composition — Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  As 
You  Like  It,  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well — had  hit  Shakespeare's 
fancy  just  then.  In  each  of  these  titles  the  author  hints  that  his 
audience  are  at  liberty  to  take  his  work  or  leave  it ;  and  gives  the 
challenge,  as  it  were,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  yet  not  without 
a  sidelong  glance  at  their  suffrages. 

Coming  just  after  As  You  Like  It  and  Mitch  Ado  About 
Nothing,  and  just  before  the  great  tragedies.  Twelfth  Night  has 
been  called  Shakespeare's  farewell  to  mirth.  Critically  described, 
it  appears  not  only  a  farewell  to  mirth,  but  a  using-up  of  the  old 
characters  that  in  former  plays  had  made  mirth.  The  whole 
piece  is  full  of  reminiscences.  The  shipwreck,  with  its  sequel  of 
disguises,  resemblances,  misunderstandings,  repeats  The  Comedy 
of  Errors  ;  as  Viola,  disguised  as  a  page  and  carrying  her  sweet- 
heart's messages  to  a  rival,  repeats  Julia  from  The  Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona ;  while  in  her  masquerade  as  a  man  she  has  been  anti- 
cipated also  by  Portia  and  Rosalind.  The  trick  played  upon 
Malvolio  has  already  been  played,  even  to  detail,  upon  Beatrice 
and  Benedick.  And  Sir  Toby,  Aguecheek,  the  Clown — are  they 
not  all  revenants}  Have  we  not  met  and  known  them  before,  in 
their  fuller-blooded  avatars,  as  Falstaff,  Master  Slender,  Touch- 
stone ? 

Delightful  to  read — and  so  much  more  delightful  to  witness,  that 
no  one  who  has  missed  seeing  it  staged  can  guess  the  full  of  its 
charm  or  the  effect  of  that  truly  Aristotelian  avayvcopiaif;  upon 
which  it  concludes — a  play  that  is  all  of  a  piece,  holding  you 
throughout  to  its  mood  and  defying  you  to  take  it  more  seriously 
than  it  chooses — Twelfth  Night,  analysed  in  the  study,  becomes  a 
play  of  shadows,  of  afterthoughts.  It  is  a  '  farewell  to  mirth,' 
divinely  poetical,  but  ghostly.  Arden,  with  its  woodland  sun- 
beam, its  jollity,  has  faded  into  an  Illyria  half-way  to  Elysium. 

xxiii 


TWELFTH    NIGHT 

The  mirth  abides ;  but  its  echoes  come  from  a  distance,  its 
dramatis  personcB  move  in  the  beams  of  a  lunar  rainbow.  They 
*  make  a  swan-like  end,'  too,  *  fading  in  music'  Music  opens  the 
play,  closes  it,  fills  the  intervals  '  with  a  dying  fall ' — 

Like  the  sweet  south 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets 
Stealing  and  giving  odour — 

music  that  from  the  note  of  '  take  the  present  time,'  has  altered 
to  that  of  '  Youth  's  a  stuff  will  not  endure ' — a  subtle,  slight 
change,  but  eloquent.  And  the  reader,  once  aware  of  this  change, 
becomes  aware  also  that  the  play — for  all  its  gaiety — is  agon- 
ising a  spell  over  him  ;  as  might  a  woman  who,  making  love  past 
her  prime,  knows  that  the  time  is  short,  and  that  she  must  win 
before  the  edge  of  daylight  pales  the  candles. 

As  usual,  Shakespeare  borrowed  his  main  plot ;  but  the  under- 
plot— the  ensnaring  of  Malvolio — is,  so  far  as  can  be  discovered, 
his  own  sole  invention,  and  to  this  the  play  has  always  owed  its 
popularity.  Indeed,  in  a  copy  of  the  second  folio  formerly 
belonging  to  Charles  L,  and  now  preserved  at  Windsor  Castle, 
'  Maluolio '  is  written  against  the  title  in  the  King's  own  hand- 
writing, as  though  the  play  had  come  to  be  known  by  that  name. 
Great  actors  have  staged  Twelfth  Night  for  the  sake  of  imperson- 
ating Malvolio,  and  their  instinct  has  been  sound.  Malvolio, 'sick 
of  self-love,'  belongs  to  the  highest,  most  ancient  traditions  of 
comedy — as  the  very  title  of  certain  lost  plays  of  Menander — 
The  Self-Pitier,  The  Self- Tormentor,  would  suffice  to  assure  us. 
Turning  to  Mr,  Meredith's  famous  Essay  on  Comedy,  we  may  read 
that  preoccupation  with  self  is  the  surest  of  all  targets  for  the 
shafts  of  the  Comic  Spirit ;  and  that  civilised  woman  is  ever — as 
in  the  lists  of  chivalry — queen  and  arbitress  of  the  game.  In 
Twelfth  Night  a  lady  is  always  president  of  the  lists.  The  Duke 
Orsino  and  the  steward  Malvolio,  with  every  character  in 
main  and  under  plot,  are  alike  performing  under  the  eyes  of  the 
Countess  Olivia.  Twelfth  Night,  in  short,  is  the  politest  of 
Shakespeare's  comedies. 

A.   T.  QUILLER-COUCH 

xxiv 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

Orsino,  Duke  of  Illyria. 

Sebastian,  brother  to  Viola. 

Antonio,  a  sea  captain,  friend  to  Sebastian. 

A  Sea  Captain,  friend  to  Viola. 

Valentine, 

Curio, 

Sir  Toby  Belch,  uncle  to  Olivia. 

Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Malvolio,  steward  to  Olivia. 

Fabian, 

Feste,  a  clown, 


r  gentlemen  attending  on  the  Duke. 


}  servants  to  Olivia. 


Olivia. 

Viola. 

Maria,  Olivia's  woman. 

Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Officers.  Musicians, 
and  other  Attendants. 

Scene — A  city  in  Illyria,  and  the  sea-coast  near  it. 


Act  I.     Scene  II. 

Viola.   What  country,  friends,  is  this? 

(page  8) 


W  '9 


'^r 


SCENE  I 
The  Duke's />a/ace 

Enter  Duke,  Curio,  and  other  Lords  ; 
Musicians  attending. 

Duke.  If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on  ; 
Give  me  excess  of  it,  that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 
That  strain  again  !  it  had  a  dying  fall : 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  sound, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets. 
Stealing  and    giving  odour !      Enough ;    no 

more : 
'Tis  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before. 
O  spirit  of  love !  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou, 
That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there, 
Of  what  validity  and  pitch  soe'er, 
But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price. 
Even  in  a  minute :  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy 
That  it  alone  is  high  fantastical. 

5 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

Cur.  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio  ? 

Cur.  The  hart. 

Duke.  Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have : 

O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 

Methought  she  purged  the  air  of  pestilence ! 

That  instant  was  I  turn'd  into  a  hart ; 

And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 

E'er  since  pursue  me. 

Enter  Valentine. 

How  now !  what  news  from  her  ? 

Val.  So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  be  admitted  ; 
But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years'  heat, 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 
But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk 
And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-offending  brine :  all  this  to  season 
A  brother's   dead   love,  which  she  would  keep 

fresh 
And  lasting  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke.  O,  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
6 


Act  I.     Scene  III. 

Sir  Toby.  With  drinking  healths  to  my 
niece  (page  13). 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Hath  kiird  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her ;  when  liver,  brain  and  heart, 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and 

fill'd 
Her  sweet  perfections  with  one  self  king ! 
Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers  : 
Love-thoughts    lie    rich    when    canopied  with 

bowers.  [Exeunt. 


[act  I. 


SCENE  II 

The  sea-coast. 

Enter  Viola,  a  Captain,  and  Sailors. 

Vio.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 
Cap.  This  is  Illyria,  lady. 
Vio.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 
Perchance  he  is  not  drown'd :  what  think  you, 
sailors  ? 
Cap.  It  is  perchance  that  you  yourself  were  saved. 
Vio.  O  my  poor  brother !  and  so  perchance  may  he 

be. 
Cap.  True,    madam :   and,  to   comfort   you    with 
chance, 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split, 
When  you  and  those  poor  number  saved  with 

you 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself, 
8 


sc.  II.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  prac- 
tice, 
To  a  strong  mast  that  lived  upon  the  sea ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 
I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves 
So  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so,  there 's  gold  : 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope. 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 
The  like  of  him.     Know'st  thou  this  country? 

Cap.  Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and  born 
Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 

Vio.  Who  governs  here  ? 

Cap.  a  noble  duke,  in  nature  as  in  name. 

Vio.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Orsino. 

Vio.  Orsino  !  I  have  heard  my  father  name  him  : 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now,  or  was  so  very  late ; 
For  but  a  month  ago  I  went  from  hence, 
And    then    'twas    fresh    in    murmur, — as,  you 

know. 
What  great  ones  do  the  less  will  prattle  of, — 
That  he  did  seek  the  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.  What 's  she  ? 

Cap.  a  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
B  9 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

That  died  some  twelvemonth  since,  then  leaving 

her 
In  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother, 
Who  shortly  also  died  :  for  whose  dear  love, 
They  say,  she  hath  abjured  the  company 
And  sight  of  men. 

Vio.  O  that  I  served  that  lady 

And  might  not  be  delivered  to  the  world, 
Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow, 
What  my  estate  is ! 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass  ; 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit. 
No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.  There  is  a  fair  behaviour  in  thee,  captain  ; 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  prithee,  and  I  '11  pay  thee  bounteously. 
Conceal  me  what  I  am,  and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as  haply  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I  '11  serve  this  duke : 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him : 
It  may  be  worth  thy  pains  ;  for  I  can  sing 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music 
That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service. 

ID 


Act  I.     Scene  III. 
Maria.  My  name  is  Mary,  sir  (page  14) 


sc.  II.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

What  else  may  hap  to  time  I  will  commit ; 

Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 
Cap.  Be  you  his  eunuch,  and  your  mute  I  '11  be : 

When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not 
see. 
Vio.  I  thank  thee  :  lead  me  on.  \Exeunt. 


II 


[act  I. 


SCENE  III 

Olivia's  house. 
Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take 

the  death  of  her  brother  thus  ?     I  am  sure  care 's 

an  enemy  to  life. 
Mar.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in 

earlier  o'  nights  :    your  cousin,   my  lady,  takes 

great  exceptions  to  your  ill  hours. 
Sir  To.  Why,  let  her  except,  before  excepted. 
Mar.  Ay,  but  you   must  confine  yourself  within 

the  modest  limits  of  order. 
Sir  To.  Confine !     I  '11    confine    myself    no    finer 

than   I  am :   these  clothes  are  good  enough  to 

drink  in ;   and  so  be  these  boots  too :   an  they 

be  not,  let  them  hang  themselves  in  their  own 

straps. 
Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you  : 

I  heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday ;  and  of  a 

12 


sc.  III.]   TWELFTH    NIGHT 

foolish  knight  that  you   brought  in  one   night 

here  to  be  her  wooer. 
Sir  To.  Who,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  ? 
Mar.  Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.  He  s  as  tall  a  man  as  any 's  in  Illyria. 
Mar.  What 's  that  to  the  purpose  ? 
Sir  To.  Why,   he   has    three   thousand   ducats   a 

year. 
Mar.  Ay,  but  he'll  have  but  a  year  in  all  these 

ducats  :  he 's  a  very  fool  and  a  prodigal. 
Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you  '11  say  so !  he  plays  o'  the  viol- 

de-gamboys,  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages 

word  for  word  without  book,  and  hath  all  the 

good  gifts  of  nature. 
Mar.  He  hath  indeed,  almost  natural :  for  besides 

that  he 's  a  fool,  he 's  a  great  quarreller  ;  and  but 

that  he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay  the  gust 

he  hath  in  quarrelling,  'tis  thought  among  the 

prudent    he  would  quickly  have  the   gift   of  a 

grave. 
Sir  To.  By  this    hand,   they  are   scoundrels   and 

substractors    that    say   so   of    him.      Who    are 

they? 
Mar.  They  that  add,  moreover,  he 's  drunk  nightly 

in  your  company. 
Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece :  I  '11 

13 


'       TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

drink  to  her  as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in 
my  throat  and  drink  in  Illyria :  he 's  a  coward 
and  a  coystrill  that  will  not  drink  to  my  niece 
till  his  brains  turn  o'  the  toe  like  a  parish-top. 
What,  wench !  Castiliano  vulgo !  for  here  comes 
Sir  Andrew  Agueface. 


Enter  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Sir  And.  Sir  Toby  Belch !    how  now,  Sir  Toby 

Belch ! 
Sir  To.  Sweet  Sir  Andrew ! 
Sir  And.  Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 
Mar.  And  you  too,  sir. 
Sir  To.  Accost,  Sir  Andrew,  accost. 
Sir  And.  What 's  that  ? 
Sir  To.  My  niece's  chambermaid. 
Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Accost,   I   desire   better 

acquaintance. 
Mar.  My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 
Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Mary  Accost, — 
Sir  To.  You   mistake,    knight :    *  accost '   is   front 

her,  board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 
Sir  And.  By   my   troth,    I  would    not   undertake 

her  in  this  company.     Is  that  the  meaning  of 

'  accost ' ? 

14 


Act  I.    Scene  IV. 

Viola.  Yet,  a  bar  Jul  strife! 

Whoeer  I  woo,  myself  would  be 
his  wife  (page  21). 


sc.  III.]   TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Mar.  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  Sir  Andrew,  would 

thou  mightst  never  draw  sword  again. 
Sir  And.  An   you  part   so,   mistress,    I  would    I 

might  never  draw  sword  again.     Fair  lady,  do 

you  think  you  have  fools  in  hand  ? 
Mar.  Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 
Sir  And.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have ;  and  here 's 

my  hand. 
Mar.  Now,   sir,   *  thought   is   free ' :    I    pray  you, 

bring  your  hand  to  the  buttery-bar  and  let  it 

drink. 
Sir  And.  Wherefore,    sweet-heart  ?    what 's    your 

metaphor  ? 
Mar.  It 's  dry,  sir. 
Sir  And.  Why,   I   think  so :    I  am  not   such   an 

ass  but  I  can  keep  my  hand  dry.     But  what's 

your  jest  ? 
Mar.  a  dry  jest,  sir. 
Sir  And.  Are  you  full  of  them  ? 
Mar.  Ay,    sir,     I     have    them     at     my    fingers' 

ends :    marry,   now  I   let   go  your  hand,   I  am 

barren.  [Bxtf. 

Sir  To.  O  knight,  thou  lackest  a  cup  of  canary : 

when  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  ? 
Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think ;  unless  you 

15 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

see  canary  put  me  down.  Methinks  sometimes 
I  have  no  more  wit  than  a  Christian  or  an 
ordinary  man  has :  but  I  am  a  great  eater  of 
beef  and  I  believe  that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  To.  No  question. 

Sir  And.  An  I  thought  that,  I  *ld  forswear  it.  I  '11 
ride  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  Pourquoi,  my  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  What  is  '  pourquoi '  ?  do  or  not  do  ?  I 
would  I  had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues 
that  I  have  in  fencing,  dancing  and  bear-baiting : 
O,  had  I  but  followed  the  arts  I 

Sir  To.  Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head 
of  hair. 

Sir  And.  Why,  would  that  have  mended  my 
hair? 

Sir  To.  Past  question ;  for  thou  seest  it  will  not 
curl  by  nature. 

Sir  And.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does 't 
not? 

Sir  To.  Excellent ;  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff. 

Sir  And.  Faith,  I  '11  home  to-morrow.  Sir  Toby : 
your  niece  will  not  be  seen ;  or,  if  she  be,  it 's 
four  to  one  she  '11  none  of  me :  the  count  himself 
here  hard  by  woos  her. 

Sir  To.  She  '11  none  o'  the  count :  she  '11  not  match 
i6 


sc.  III.]  TWELFTH    NIGHT 

above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor 
wit ;  I  have  heard  her  swear 't.  Tut,  there 's  life 
in't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I  '11  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fellow 
o'  the  strangest  mind  i'  the  world  ;  I  delight  in 
masques  and  revels  sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshawses, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he 
be,  under  the  degree  of  my  betters ;  and  yet  I 
will  not  compare  with  an  old  man. 

Sir  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.  Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.  And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to 't. 

Sir  And.  And  I  think  I  have  the  back-trick  simply 
as  strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Sir  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  wherefore 
have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before  'em?  are  they 
like  to  take  dust,  like  Mistress  Mall's  picture? 
why  dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a  galliard 
and  come  home  in  a  coranto  ?  My  very  walk 
should  be  a  jig.  What  dost  thou  mean  ?  Is  it 
a  world  to  hide  virtues  in  ?  I  did  think,  by  the 
excellent  constitution  of  thy  leg,  it  was  formed 
under  the  star  of  a  galliard. 
c  17 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  'tis  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent 

well  in  a  flame-coloured  stock.      Shall   we   set 

about  some  revels  ? 
Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  ?  were  we  not  born 

under  Taurus  ? 
Sir  And.  Taurus !     That 's  sides  and  heart. 
Sir  To.  No,  sir ;    it  is  legs  and  thighs.     Let  me 

see  thee  caper :  ha  I  higher :  ha,  ha !  excellent ! 

\Exeunt, 


i8 


Act  I.     Scene  V. 

Maria.   Yet  you  will  be  hanged  for  being 
so  long  absent  (page  22). 


■^0^. 


W 


U, 


^  HtATH      , 
!<0BIM6C»J 


SC.  IV.] 


SCENE   IV 

The  T>vkr's  palace. 
Enter  Valentine,  and  Viola  in  mans  attire. 

Val.  If  the  duke  continue  these  favours  towards 
you,  Cesario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  advanced  : 
he  hath  known  you  but  three  days,  and  already 
you  are  no  stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humour  or  my  negligence, 
that  you  call  in  question  the  continuance  of  his 
love :  is  he  inconstant,  sir,  in  his  favours  ? 

Val.  No,  believe  me. 

Vio.  I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  count. 

Eftter  Duke,  Curio,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Vio.  On  your  attendance,  my  lord  ;  here. 

Duke.  Stand  you  a  while  aloof.     Cesario, 

Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all ;  I  have  unclasp'd 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul : 

19 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

Therefore,   good   youth,  address   thy  gait   unto 

her; 
Be  not  denied  access,  stand  at  her  doors, 
And  tell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandon'd  to  her  sorrow 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Duke.  Be  clamorous  and  leap  all  civil  bounds 
Rather  than  make  unprofited  return. 

Vio.  Say  I  do  speak  with  her,  my  lord,  what  then  ? 

Duke.  O,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love. 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith  : 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes  ; 
She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth 
Than  in  a  nuncio's  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.  I  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it ; 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years. 
That  say  thou  art  a  man  :  Diana's  lip 
Is  not  more  smooth  and  rubious ;  thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill  and  sound, 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part. 
I  know  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair.     Some  four  or  five  attend  him  ; 
All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best 
20 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

When  least  in  company.     Prosper  well  in  this, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 
Vio.  I  '11  do  my  best 

To  woo  your  lady  :  [^szde]  yet,  a  barful  strife ! 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife. 

[Exeunt 


21 


[act  I. 


SCENE  V 

Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been, 

or  I  will  not  open  my  lips  so  wide  as  a  bristle 

may  enter  in  way  of  thy  excuse :  my  lady  will 

hang  thee  for  thy  absence. 
Clo.  Let  her  hang  me :  he  that  is  well  hanged  in 

this  world  needs  to  fear  no  colours. 
Mar.  Make  that  good. 
Clo.  He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 
Mar.  a  good  lenten  answer :  I  can  tell  thee  where 

that  saying  was  born,  of  '  I  fear  no  colours.' 
Clo.  Where,  good  Mistress  Mary  ? 
Mar.  In  the  wars ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold  to 

say  in  your  foolery. 
Clo.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom  that  have  it ; 

and   those    that   are   fools,    let   them   use   their 

talents.  * 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be   hanged  for  being  so  long 

22 


Act  I.     Scene  V. 
Sir  Toby.  Give  me  faith,  say  I  (page  27). 


sc.  v.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

absent ;   or,  to  be  turned  away,   is  not  that  as 

good  as  a  hanging  to  you  ? 
Clo.  Many    a    good    hanging    prevents     a    bad 

marriage ;    and,    for  turning  away,   let  summer 

bear  it  out. 
Mar.  You  are  resolute,  then  ? 
Clo.  Not  so,  neither ;  but  I  am  resolved  on  two 

points. 
Mar.  That  if  one  break,  the  other  will  hold ;  or, 

if  both  break,  your  gaskins  fall. 
Clo.  Apt,  in  good  faith ;  very  apt.     Well,  go  thy 

way ;  if  Sir   Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou 

wert  as  witty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in 

Illyria. 
Mar.  Peace,  you   rogue,  no  more  o'  that.     Here 

comes  my  lady :  make  your  excuse  wisely,  you 

were  best.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Wit,  an 't    be    thy  will,  put   me   into  good 

fooling !     Those  wits,  that  think  they  have  thee, 

do  very  oft  prove  fools ;    and  I,   that  am  sure 

I  lack  thee,  may  pass  for  a  wise  man :  for  what 

says  Quinapalus  ?     '  Better  a  witty  fool  than  a 

foolish  wit.' 

Enter  Lady  Olivia  with  Malvolio. 
God  bless  thee,  lady  1 

23 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

Oli.  Take  the  fool  away. 

Clo.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows?  Take  away  the 
lady. 

Oli.  Go  to,  you  're  a  dry  fool ;  I  '11  no  more  of 
you  :  besides,  you  grow  dishonest. 

Clo.  Two  faults,  madonna,  that  drink  and  good 
counsel  will  amend  :  for  give  the  dry  fool  drink, 
then  is  the  fool  not  dry :  bid  the  dishonest  man 
mend  himself;  if  he  mend,  he  is  no  longer  dis- 
honest ;  if  he  cannot,  let  the  botcher  mend  him. 
Any  thing  that 's  mended  is  but  patched  :  virtue 
that  transgresses  is  but  patched  with  sin ;  and 
sin  that  amends  is  but  patched  with  virtue.  If 
that  this  simple  syllogism  will  serve,  so ;  if  it 
will  not,  what  remedy?  As  there  is  no  true 
cuckold  but  calamity,  so  beauty 's  a  flower.  The 
lady  bade  take  away  the  fool ;  therefore,  I  say 
again,  take  her  away. 

Oll  Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clo.  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree!  Lady, 
cucullus  non  facit  monachum ;  that 's  as  much 
to  say  as  I  wear  not  motley  in  my  brain.  Good 
madonna,  give  me  leave  to  prove  you  a  fool. 

Oll  Can  you  do  it? 

Clo.  Dexteriously,  good  madonna. 

Oll  Make  your  proof.  "^ 

24 


sc.  v.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Clo.  I  must  catechize  you  for  it,  madonna:  good 

my  mouse  of  virtue,  answer  me. 
Oli.   Well,   sir,  for  want   of  other   idleness,    I  '11 
bide  your  proof. 

Clo.  Good  madonna,  why  mournest  thou  ? 

Oli.  Good  fool,  for  my  brother's  death. 

Clo.  I  think  his  soul  is  in  hell,  madonna. 

Oli.  I  know  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  fool. 

Clo.  The  more  fool,  madonna,  to  mourn  for  your 
brother's  soul  being  in  heaven.  Take  away  the 
fool,  gentlemen. 

Oli.  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio  ?'  doth 
he  not  mend  ? 

Mal.  Yes,  and  shall  do,  till  the  pangs  of  death 
shake  him :  infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth 
ever  make  the  better  fool. 

Clo.  God  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity,  for  the 
better  increasing  your  folly !  Sir  Toby  will  be 
sworn  that  I  am  no  fox ;  but  he  will  not  pass 
his  word  for  two  pence  that  you  are  no  fool. 

Oli.  How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mal.  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in  such 
a  barren  rascal :  I  saw  him  put  down  the  other 
day  with  an  ordinary  fool  that  has  no  more  brain 
than  a  stone.  Look  you  now,  he's  out  of  his 
guard  already ;  unless  you  laugh  and  minister 

D  25 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

occasion  to  him,  he  is  gagged.  I  protest,  I  take 
these  wise  men,  that  crow  so  at  these  set  kind  of 
fools,  no  better  than  the  fools'  zanies. 

Oli.  O,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and 
taste  with  a  distempered  appetite.  To  be 
generous,  guiltless  and  of  free  disposition,  is  to 
take  those  things  for  bird-bolts  that  you  deem 
cannon-bullets  :  there  is  no  slander  in  an  allowed 
fool,  though  he  do  nothing  but  rail ;  nor  no 
railing  in  a  known  discreet  man,  though  he  do 
nothing  but  reprove. 

Clo.  Now  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing,  for 
thou  speakest  well  of  fools  ! 

Re-enter  Maria. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young  gentle- 
man much  desires  to  speak  with  you. 

Oli.  From  the  Count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam  :  'tis  a  fair  young  man, 
and  well  attended. 

Oli.  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ? 

Mar.  Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

Oli.  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you ;  he  speaks  nothing 

but  madman :   fie  on  him !   \Exit  Maria.]     Go 

you,  Malvolio :  if  it  be  a  suit  from  the  count,  I 

am   sick,  or   not  at   home ;    what  you  will,  to 

26 


Act  I.     Scene  V. 

Olivia.  But  we  will  draw  the  curtain 
and  show  you  the  picture 

(page  32). 


sc.  v.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

dismiss  it.  \Exit  Malvolio.]  Now  you  see, 
sir,  how  your  fooling  grows  old,  and  people 
dislike  it. 
Clo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if  thy 
eldest  son  should  be  a  fool ;  whose  skull  Jove 
cram  with  brains  :  for, — here  he  comes, — one  of 
thy  kin  has  a  most  weak  pia  mater. 

Enter  Sir  Toby. 

Oli.  By  mine  honour,  half  drunk.     What  is  he  at 

the  gate,  cousin  ? 
Sir  To.  A  gentleman. 
Oli.  a  gentleman  !  what  gentleman  ? 
Sir  To.  'Tis  a  gentleman  here — a  plague  o*  these 

pickle-herring !     How  now,  sot ! 
Clo.  Good  Sir  Toby ! 
Oli.  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you  come  so  early 

by  this  lethargy  ? 
Sir  To.  Lechery !     I  defy  lechery.     There 's  one  at 

the  gate. 
Oli.  Ay,  marry,  what  is  he? 
Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will,  I  care 

not :  give  me  faith,  say  L     Well,  it 's  all  one. 

[Exit. 
Oli.  What 's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool  ? 
Clo.  Like  a  drowned  man,  a  fool  and  a  mad  man  : 

27 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

one  draught  above  heat  makes  him  a  fool ;  the 
second  mads  him  ;  and  a  third  drowns  him. 

Oli.  Go  thou  and  seek  the  crowner,  and  let  him 
sit  o'  my  coz ;  for  he 's  in  the  third  degree  of 
drink,  he 's  drowned  :  go  look  after  him. 

Clo.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna ;  and  the  fool 
shall  look  to  the  madman.  \Exit. 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mal.  Madam,  yond  young  fellow  swears  he  will 
speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick ;  he 
takes  on  him  to  understand  so  much,  and  there- 
fore comes  to  speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you 
were  asleep ;  he  seems  to  have  a  foreknowledge 
of  that  too,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with 
you.  What  is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady?  he's 
fortified  against  any  denial. 

Oli.  Tell  him  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mal.  Has  been  told  so ;  and  he  says,  he  '11  stand 
at  your  door  like  a  sheriff's  post,  and  be  the 
supporter  to  a  bench,  but  he  '11  speak  with  you. 

Oll  What  kind  o'  man  is  he  ? 

Mal.  Why,  of  mankind. 

Oli.  What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mal.  Of  very  ill  manner ;   he  '11  speak  with  you, 
will  you  or  no. 
28 


sc.  v.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Oli.  Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Mal.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young 
enough  for  a  boy;  as  a  squash  is  before  'tis  a 
peascod,  or  a  codling  when  'tis  almost  an  apple : 
'tis  with  him  in  standing  water,  between  boy 
and  man.  He  is  very  well-favoured  and  he 
speaks  very  shrewishly ;  one  would  think  his 
mother's  milk  were  scarce  out  of  him. 

Oli.  Let  him  approach  :  call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mal.  Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Maria. 

Oli.  Give  me  my  veil :  come,  throw  it  o'er  my  face. 
We  '11  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  Viola  and  Attendants. 

Vio.  The  honourable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is 
she? 

Oli.  Speak  to  me ;  I  shall  answer  for  her.  Your 
will? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite  and  unmatchable 
beauty, — I  pray  you,  tell  me  if  this  be  the  lady 
of  the  house,  for  I  never  saw  her :  I  would  be 
loath  to  cast  away  my  speech,  for  besides  that 
it  is  excellently  well  penned,  I  have  taken  great 
pains  to  con  it.     Good  beauties,  let  me  sustain 

29 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

no  scorn ;  I  am  very  comptible,  even  to  the 
least  sinister  usage. 

Oli.  Whence  came  you,  sir? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied,  and 
that  question's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle 
one,  give  me  modest  assurance  if  you  be  the 
lady  of  the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my 
speech. 

Oli.  Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart :  and  yet,  by  the  very 
fangs  of  malice  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play. 
Are  you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

Oli.  If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp 
yourself;  for  what  is  yours  to  bestow  is  not 
yours  to  reserve.  But  this  is  from  my  commis- 
sion :  I  will  on  with  my  speech  in  your  praise, 
and  then  show  you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

Oli.  Come  to  what  is  important  in 't :  I  forgive 
you  the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  'tis 
poetical.      ^ 

Oli.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned  :  I  pray  you, 
keep  it  in.  I  heard  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates, 
and  allowed  your  approach  rather  to  wonder  at 
you  than  to  hear  you.     If  you  be  not  mad,  be 

30 


Act  II.     Scene  I. 
Sebastian.  No,  sooth,  sir :  my  determin- 
ate voyage  is  mere  extrava- 
gancy (page  39). 


i^^&is^k  ^. 


sc.  v.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

gone :  if  you  have  reason,  be  brief :  'tis  not  that 

time  of  moon  with  me  to  make  one  in  so  skipping 

a  dialogue. 
Mar.  Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your  way. 
Vio.  No,  good  swabber ;  I  am  to  hull  here  a  little 

longer.     Some  mollification  for  your  giant,  sweet 

lady.     Tell  me  your  mind  :  I  am  a  messenger. 
Oli.    Sure,    you   have    some    hideous    matter    to 

deliver,   when    the   courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful. 

Speak  your  office. 
Vio.    It   alone   concerns   your   ear.       I    bring    no 

overture  of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage :  I  hold 

the  olive  in  my  hand ;  my  words  are  as  full  of 

peace  as  matter. 
Oli.  Yet  you  began  rudely.     What  are  you  ?  what 

would  you  ? 
Vio.  The  rudeness  that  hath  appeared  in  me  have 

I  learned  from  my  entertainment.     What  I  am, 

and  what  I  would,  are  as  secret  as  maidenhead  ; 

to  your  ears,  divinity,  to  any  other's,  profanation. 
Oli.  Give  us  the  place  alone :   we  will  hear  this 

divinity.       [Exeunt    Maria    and    Attendants.] 

Now,  sir,  what  is  your  text  ? 
Vio.  Most  sweet  lady, — 
Oli.  a  comfortable   doctrine,  and   much   may  be 

said  of  it.     Where  lies  your  text? 

31 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

Vio.  In  Orsino's  bosom. 

Oli.  In  his  bosom  !    In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom  ? 

Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his 
heart. 

Oli.  O,  I  have  read  it :  it  is  heresy.  Have  you  no 
more  to  say? 

Vio.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Oli.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to 
negotiate  with  my  face?  You  are  now  out  of 
your  text :  but  we  will  draw  the  curtain  and  show 
you  the  picture.  Look  you,  sir,  such  a  one  I 
was  this  present :  is 't  not  well  done  ? 

[Unveiling. 

Vio.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

Oli.  'Tis  in  grain,  sir;  'twill  endure  wind  and 
weather. 

Vio.  'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on  : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruell'st  she  alive. 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Oli.  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted ;  I  will 
give  out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty :  it  shall 
be  inventoried,  and  every  particle  and  utensil 
labelled  to  my  will :  as,  item,  two  lips,  indifferent 
red ;  item,  two  grey  eyes,  with  lids  to  them ; 
32 


sc.  v.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

item,  one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so  forth.    Were 

you  sent  hither  to  praise  me  ? 
Vio.  I  see  you  what  you  are,  you  are  too  proud  ; 

But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 

My  lord  and  master  loves  you  :  O,  such  love 

Could   be   but   recompensed,    though  you  were 
crown 'd 

The  nonpareil  of  beauty ! 
Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.  With  adorations,  fertile  tears, 

With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 
Oli.  Your  lord   does   know  my  mind ;    I    cannot 
love  him : 

Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 

Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth  ; 

In  voices  well  divulged,  free,  learn'd  and  valiant ; 

And  in  dimension  and  the  shape  of  nature 

A  gracious  person  :  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him  ; 

He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 
Vio.  If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame. 

With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life. 

In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense ; 

I  would  not  understand  it. 
Oli.  Why,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate. 

And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house ; 
E  33 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  i. 

Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love 

And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 

Halloo  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills 

And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 

Cry  out  '  Olivia ! '     O,  you  should  not  rest 

Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 

But  you  should  pity  me  I 

Oli.  You  might  do  much. 

What  is  your  parentage  ? 

Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

Oli.  Get  you  to  your  lord  ; 

I  cannot  love  him :  let  him  send  no  more ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains  :  spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.  I  am  no  fee'd  post,  lady ;  keep  your  purse : 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint  that  you  shall  love ; 
And  let  your  fervour,  like  my  master's,  be 
Placed  in  contempt !     Farewell,  fair  cruelty. 

[Exit. 

Oli.  *  What  is  your  parentage  ? ' 

'  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman.'     I  '11  be  sworn  thou  art ; 
Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions  and  spirit, 

34 


Act  II.     Scene  II. 

Viola.  O  time !  thou  must  untangle  this^ 
not  I  (page  44). 


'^«vfe''«A^>N 


sc.  v.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon  :  not  too  fast :  soft, 

softl 
Unless  the  master  were  the  man.     How  now ! 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 
Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. 
What  ho,  Malvolio  1 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mal.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

Oli.  Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger. 
The  county's  man  :  he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 
Would  I  or  not :  tell  him  I  '11  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord, 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  ;  I  am  not  for  him  : 
If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
I  '11  give  him  reasons  for 't :  hie  thee,  Malvolio. 

Mal.  Madam,  I  will.  {Exit. 

Oli.  I  do  I  know  not  what,  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 
Fate,  show  thy  force :  ourselves  we  do  not  owe ; 
What  is  decreed  must  be,  and  be  this  so.    {Exit, 


35 


Act  II.     Scene  III. 

Clown  (sings).   That  can  sing  both  high 
and  low       (page  47). 


''^ 


J' . 


SCENE  I 

The  sea-coast. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Sebastian. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer?  nor  will  you  not 
that  I  go  with  you  ? 

Seb.  By  your  patience,  no.  My  stars  shine  darkly 
over  me :  the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might 
perhaps  distemper  yours ;  therefore  I  shall  crave 
of  you  your  leave  that  I  may  bear  my  evils 
alone :  it  were  a  bad  recompense  for  your  love, 
to  lay  any  of  them  on  you. 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you  whither  you  are 
bound. 

Seb.  No,  sooth,  sir:  my  determinate  voyage  is 
mere  extravagancy.  But  I  perceive  in  you  so 
excellent  a  touch  of  modesty,  that  you  will  not 
extort  from  me  what  I  am  willing  to  keep  in  ; 
therefore  it  charges  me  in  manners  the  rather 
to  express  myself.     You  must  know  of  me  then, 

39 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  ii. 

Antonio,  my  name  is  Sebastian,  which  I  called 
Roderigo.  My  father  was  that  Sebastian  of 
Messaline,  whom  I  know  you  have  heard  of. 
He  left  behind  him  myself  and  a  sister,  both 
born  in  an  hour:  if  the  heavens  had  been 
pleased,  would  we  had  so  ended !  but  you,  sir, 
altered  that ;  for  some  hour  before  you  took  me 
from  the  breach  of  the  sea  was  my  sister 
drowned. 

Ant.  Alas  the  day ! 

Seb.  a  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much 
resembled  me,  was  yet  of  many  accounted 
beautiful :  but,  though  I  could  not  with  such 
estimable  wonder  overfar  believe  that,  yet  thus 
far  I  will  boldly  publish  her;  she  bore  a  mind 
that  envy  could  not  but  call  fair.  She  is 
drowned  already,  sir,  with  salt  water,  though  I 
seem  to  drown  her  remembrance  again  with 
more. 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seb.  O  good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,  let 
me  be  your  servant. 

Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done, 
that  is,  kill  him  whom  you  have  recovered,  desire 
it  not.  Fare  ye  well  at  once :  my  bosom  is  full 
40 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

of  kindness,  and  I  am  yet  so  near  the  manners 
of  my  mother,  that  upon  the  least  occasion  more 
mine  eyes  will  tell  tales  of  me.  I  am  bound  to 
the  Count  Orsino's  court :  farewell.  \Exit. 

Ant.  The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with  thee ! 
I  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court, 
Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  thee  there. 
But,  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so, 
That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go. 

\_Exit. 


41 


[act  II. 


SCENE  II 

A  street. 

Enter  Viola,  Maiswoiao  following. 

Mal.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  Countess 
Olivia? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir;  on  a  moderate  pace  I  have 
since  arrived  but  hither. 

Mal.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir :  you  might 
have  saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away 
yourself.  She  adds,  moreover,  that  you  should 
put  your  lord  into  a  desperate  assurance  she 
will  none  of  him  :  and  one  thing  more,  that  you 
be  never  so  hardy  to  come  again  in  his  affairs, 
unless  it  be  to  report  your  lord's  taking  of  this. 
Receive  it  so. 

Vio.  She  took  the  ring  of  me  :  I  '11  none  of  it. 

Mal.  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her ; 
and  her  will  is,  it  should  be  so  returned  :  if  it  be 
42 


Act  II.     Scene  III. 

Clown  (sings).  Journeys  end  in   lovers 
meeting         (page  47). 


sc.  II.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

worth  stooping  for,  there  it  lies  in  your  eye ;  if 

not,  be  it  his  that  finds  it.  [Exit. 

Vio.  I   left  no   ring  with   her :  what   means   this 

lady? 
Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charm'd  her ! 
She  made  good  view  of  me  ;  indeed,  so  much. 
That    sure    methought    her   eyes   had   lost   her 

tongue. 
For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 
She  loves  me,  sure  ;  the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None   of    my   lord's   ring!    why,    he    sent    her 

none. 
I  am  the  man  :  if  it  be  so,  as  'tis, 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness, 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 
How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false 
In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 
Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we ! 
For  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 
How   will    this    fadge?    my    master    loves   her 

dearly ; 
And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him  ; 
And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me. 
What  will  become  of  this  ?    As  I  am  man, 

43 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  ii. 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love ; 

As  I  am  woman, — now  alas  the  day  ! — 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ! 

O  time !  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 

It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie !  \Exit, 


44 


SC.   III.] 


SCENE  III 

Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Approach,  Sir  Andrew :  not  to  be  a-bed 
after  midnight  is  to  be  up  betimes  ;  and  *  diluculo 
surgere,'  thou  know'st, — 

Sir  And.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not :  but  I 
know,  to  be  up  late  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  false  conclusion  :  I  hate  it  as  an  unfilled 
can.  To  be  up  after  midnight  and  to  go  to  bed 
then,  is  early :  so  that  to  go  to  bed  after  mid- 
night is  to  go  to  bed  betimes.  Does  not  our  life 
consist  of  the  four  elements  ? 

Sir  And.  Faith,  so  they  say ;  but  I  think  it  rather 
consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou  'rt  a  scholar ;  let  us  therefore  eat 
and  drink.     Marian,  I  say !  a  stoup  of  wine ! 

Enter  Clown. 
Sir  And.  Here  comes  the  fool,  'i  faith. 

45 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  n. 

Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts !  did  you  never  see  the 
picture  of  '  we  three '  ? 

Sir  To.  Welcome,  ass.  Now  let 's  have  a 
catch. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent 
breast.  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had 
such  a  leg,  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the 
fool  has.  In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very  gracious 
fooling  last  night,  when  thou  spokest  of  Pigro- 
gromitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial 
of  Queubus  :  'twas  very  good,  i'  faith.  I  sent 
thee  sixpence  for  thy  leman  :  hadst  it  ? 

Clo.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity ;  for  Malvolio's 
nose  is  no  whipstock  :  my  lady  has  a  white 
hand,  and  the  Myrmidons  are  no  bottle-ale 
houses. 

Sir  And.  Excellent !  why,  this  is  the  best  fooling, 
when  all  is  done.     Now,  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on  ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you  :  let  s 
have  a  song. 

Sir  And.  There 's  a  testril  of  me  too :  if  one 
knight  give  a — 

Clo.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of 
good  life  ? 

Sir  To.  A  love-song,  a  love-song. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  ay :  I  care  not  for  good  life. 

46 


Act  II.     Scene  III. 

Clown  (sings).  Present  mirth  hath  present 
laughter         (page  47). 


't'^c^' 


'A^i' 


V.  '     ^V--4, 


sc.  in.]   TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Clo.  [Sings] 

» 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
O,  stay  and  hear  ;  your  true  love  's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

Sir  And.  Excellent  good,  i'  faith. 
Sir  To.  Good,  good. 
Clo.  [Sings] 

What  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter  ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty. 

Youth 's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

Sir  And.  A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight. 

Sir  To.  A  contagious  breath. 

Sir  And.  Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'  faith. 

Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  con- 
tagion. But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance 
indeed  ?  shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch 
that  will  draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver? 
shall  we  do  that  ? 

47 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  n. 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let  *s  do 't :  I  am  dog  at 

a  catch. 
Clo.  By'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch  well. 
Sir  And.  Most  certain.     Let  our  catch  be,  '  Thou 

knave.' 
Clo.  '  Hold   thy  peace,   thou   knave,'   knight  ?     I 

shall   be  constrained    in't    to   call    thee  knave, 

knight. 
Sir  And.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  constrained 

one  to  call  me  knave.     Begin,  fool  :    it   begins 

'  Hold  thy  peace.' 
Clo.  I  shall  never  begin  if  I  hold  my  peace. 
Sir  And.  Good,  i'  faith.    Come,  begin. 

[Catch  sung. 


Enter  Maria. 

Mar.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here  I  If 
my  lady  have  not  called  up  her  steward  Malvolio 
and  bid  him  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never  trust 
me. 

Sir  To.  My  lady  's  a  Cataian,  we  are  politicians, 
Malvolio 's  a  Peg-a-Ramsey,  and  'Three  merry 
men  be  we.'  Am  not  I  consanguineous  ?  am 
I  not  of  her  blood  ?  Tillyvally.  Lady !  \Sings\ 
*  There  dwelt  a  man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady! ' 
48 


sc.  III.]  TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Clo.  Beshrew  me,  the  knight 's  in  admirable  fool- 
ing. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough  if  he  be  dis- 
posed, and  so  do  I  too :  he  does  it  with  a  better 
grace,  but  I  do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  To.  [Sings]  '  O,  the  twelfth  day  of  December,' — 

Mar.  For  the  love  o'  God,  peace  ! 


Enter  Malvolio. 

Mal.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are  you  ? 
Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but  to 
gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night  ?  Do 
ye  make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady's  house,  that  ye 
squeak  out  your  coziers'  catches  without  any 
mitigation  or  remorse  of  voice  ?  Is  there  no 
respect  of  place,  persons,  nor  time  in  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 
Sneck  up  ! 

Mal.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you.  My 
lady  bade  me  tell  you,  that,  though  she  harbours 
you  as  her  kinsman,  she 's  nothing  allied  to  your 
disorders.  If  you  can  separate  yourself  and  your 
misdemeanours,  you  are  welcome  to  the  house ; 
if  not,  an  it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of 
her,  she  is  very  willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 
G  49 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  n. 

Sir  To.  '  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs 
be  gone.' 

Mar.  Nay,  good  Sir  Toby. 

Clo.  '  His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done.' 

Mal.  Is  't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.  '  But  I  will  never  die.' 

Clo.  Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mal.  This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.  '  Shall  I  bid  him  go  ? ' 

Clo.  *  What  an  if  you  do  ?  * 

Sir  To.  '  Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  ? ' 

Clo.  '  O  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not.' 

Sir  To.  Out  o'  tune,  sir :  ye  lie.  Art  any  more 
than  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou 
art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and 
ale? 

Clo.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne,  and  ginger  shall  be  hot 
i'  the  mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou  'rt  i'  the  right.  Go,  sir,  rub  your 
chain  with  crums.     A  stoup  of  wine,  Maria ! 

Mal.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's 
favour  at  any  thing  more  than  contempt,  you 
would  not  give  means  for  this  uncivil  rule :  she 
shall  know  of  it,  by  this  hand.  \Exit, 

Mar.  Go  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  And.  'Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when 

50 


Act  II.     Scene  III. 

Sir  Andrew.  A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I 
am  true  knight 

(page  47). 


sc.  III.]  TWELFTH    NIGHT 

a  man  's  a-hungry,  to  challenge  him  the  field,  and 
then  to  break  promise  with  him  and  make  a  fool 
of  him. 

Sir  To.  Do  't,  knight :  I  '11  write  thee  a  challenge  ; 
or  I  '11  deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by  word  of 
mouth. 

Mar.  Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night : 
since  the  youth  of  the  count's  was  to-day  with 
my  lady,  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  Mon- 
sieur Malvolio,  let  me  alone  with  him :  if  I  do 
not  gull  him  into  a  nayword,  and  make  him  a 
common  recreation,  do  not  think  I  have  wit 
enough  to  lie  straight  in  my  bed :  I  know  I  can 
do  it. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us,  possess  us  ;  tell  us  something 
of  him. 

Mar.  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of 
puritan. 

Sir  And.  O,  if  I  thought  that,  I  'Id  beat  him  like  a 
dog! 

Sir  To.  What,  for  being  a  puritan  ?  thy  exquisite 
reason,  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for 't,  but  I 
have  reason  good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  puritan  that  he  is,  or  any  thing 
constantly,  but  a  time-pleaser ;  an  affectioned  ass, 

51 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  ii. 

that  cons  state  without  book  and  utters  it  by 
great  swarths :  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so 
crammed,  as  he  thinks,  with  excellencies,  that  it 
is  his  grounds  of  faith  that  all  that  look  on  him 
love  him ;  and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my 
revenge  find  notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles 
of  love  ;  wherein,  by  the  colour  of  his  beard,  the 
shape  of  his  leg,  the  manner  of  his  gait,  the 
expressure  of  his  eye,  forehead,  and  complexion, 
he  shall  find  himself  most  feelingly  personated. 
I  can  write  very  like  my  lady  your  niece :  on  a 
forgotten  matter  we  can  hardly  make  distinction 
of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.  Excellent !     I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  And.  I  have 't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou 
wilt  drop,  that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and 
that  she 's  in  love  with  him. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that 
colour. 

Sir  And.  And  your  horse  now  would  make  him 
an  ass. 

Mar.  Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  And.  O,  'twill  be  admirable  1 
52 


sc.  in.]   TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you :  I  know  my 
physic  will  work  with  him.  I  will  plant  you 
two,  and  let  the  fool  make  a  third,  where  he  shall 
find  the  letter :  observe  his  construction  of  it. 
For  this  night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event. 
Farewell.  \Exit. 

Sir  To.  Good  night,  Penthesilea. 

Sir  And.  Before  me,  she 's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She  's  a  beagle,  true-bred,  and  one  that 
adores  me  :  what  o'  that  ? 

Sir  And.  I  was  adored  once  too. 

Sir  To.  Let 's  to  bed,  knight.  Thou  hadst  need 
send  for  more  money. 

Sir  And.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am  a 
foul  way  out. 

Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight :  if  thou  hast  her 
not  i'  the  end,  call  me  cut. 

Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  it  how 
you  will. 

Sir  To.  Come,  come,  I  '11  go  burn  some  sack  ;  'tis 
too  late  to  go  to  bed  now :  come,  knight ;  come, 
knight.  [Exeunt. 


53 


[act  II. 


SCENE  IV 

The  Dvkr's  pa/ace. 

Enter  Duke,  Viola,  Curio,  and  others, 

Duke.  Give  me  some  music.     Now,  good  morrow, 
friends. 
Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night : 
Methought  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much, 
More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms 
Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times  : 
Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  that 
should  sing  it. 

Duke.  Who  was  it  ? 

Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord  ;  a  fool  that  the 
lady  Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in.  He  is 
about  the  house. 

Duke.  Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while. 

\Exit  Curio.     Music  plays. 
Come  hither,  boy  :  if  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
54 


Act  II.     Scene  III. 

Malvolio.  My  masters ^  are  yon  mad? 

(page  49) 


J^ 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it  remember  me  ; 
For  such  as  I  am  all  true  lovers  are, 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  beloved.     How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Vio.  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  throned. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly : 

My  life  upon 't,   young  though   thou  art,   thine 

eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favour  that  it  loves : 
Hath  it  not,  boy? 

Vio.  a  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is 't  ? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.  She  is  not  worth  thee,  then.     What  years, 
i'  faith  ? 

Vio.  About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old,  by  heaven :    let  still  the  woman 
take 
An  elder  than  herself :  so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart : 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves. 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm. 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn. 
Than  women's  are. 

55 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  ii. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 

Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent ; 

For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower, 

Being  once  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 
Vio.  And  so  they  are  :  alas,  that  they  are  so  ; 

To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow ! 


Re-enter  Curio  and  Clown. 

Duke.  O,  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last  night. 
Mark  it,  Cesario,  it  is  old  and  plain ; 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun 
And    the  free    maids    that  weave    their   thread 

with  bones 
Do  use  to  chant  it :  it  is  silly  sooth, 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love, 
Like  the  old  age. 

Clo.  Are  you  ready,  sir? 

Duke.  Ay  ;  prithee,  sing.  \Mnsic. 

Song. 

Clo.         Come  away,  come  away,  death, 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 

56 


sc.  IV.]   TWELFTH    NIGHT 

My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O,  prepare  it ! 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be 
thrown : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there ! 

Duke.  There 's  for  thy  pains. 

Clo.  No  pains,  sir ;  I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 

Duke.  I  '11  pay  thy  pleasure  then. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid,  one 
time  or  another. 

Duke.  Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee. 

Clo.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee ;  and 
the  tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taffeta, 
for  thy  mind  is  a  very  opal.  I  would  have  men 
of  such  constancy  put  to  sea,  that  their  business 
might  be  every  thing  and  their  intent  every 
where ;  for  that 's  it  that  always  makes  a  good 
voyage  of  nothing.     Farewell.  [£xi^. 

H  57 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  n. 

Duke.  Let  all  the  rest  give  place. 

[Curio  and  Attendants  retire. 
Once  more,  Cesario, 
Get  thee  to  yond  same  sovereign  cruelty  : 
Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world. 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands  ; 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her. 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune ; 
But  'tis  that  miracle  and  queen  of  gems 
That  nature  pranks  her  in  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.  But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir? 

Duke.  I  cannot  be  so  answer  d. 

Vio.  Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say  that  some  lady,  as  perhaps  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia :  you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so ;  must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides 

Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart ;  no  woman's  heart 
So  big,  to  hold  so  much  ;  they  lack  retention. 
Alas,  their  love  may  be  call'd  appetite, 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, 
That  suffer  surfeit,  cloyment  and  revolt ; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea. 
And  can  digest  as  much  :  make  no  compare 

58 


Act  II.     Scene  IV. 

Clown  (sings).  Come  away,  come  away, 
death  (page  56). 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me 

And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 
Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 
Vio.  Too   well   what    love   women    to   men   may 
owe : 

In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 

My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 

As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 

I  should  your  lordship. 
Duke.  And  what 's  her  history  ? 

Vio.  a    blank,    my   lord.      She    never    told    her 
love, 

But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud. 

Feed    on    her    damask    cheek :     she    pined    in 
thought. 

And  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy 

She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 

Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love  indeed  ? 

We    men    may   say    more,    swear    more :    but 
indeed 

Our   shows   are   more   than  will ;   for  still  we 
prove 

Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 
Duke.  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 
Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 

59 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  ii. 

And  all  the  brothers  too :  and  yet  I  know  not. 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 
Duke.  Ay,  that 's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste  ;  give  her  this  jewel ;  say. 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay. 

\Exeunt. 


60 


sc.  v.] 


SCENE  V 

Olivia's  garden. 

Enter  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Come  thy  ways,  Signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,    I  '11    come :     if    I    lose    a    scruple   of 

this    sport,    let    me    be    boiled    to    death    with 

melancholy. 
Sir  To.  Wouldst  thou   not  be  glad  to  have  the 

niggardly    rascally    sheep-biter   come    by   some 

notable  shame  ? 
Fab.  I  would  exult,  man :  you  know,  he  brought 

me  out  o'  favour  with  my  lady  about  a  bear- 
baiting  here. 
Sir  To.  To  anger  him  we  '11  have  the  bear  again ; 

and  we  will  fool  him  black  and  blue :  shall  we 

not,  Sir  Andrew? 
Sir  And.  An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 
Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain. 

Enter  Maria. 

How  now,  my  metal  of  India! 

6i 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  ii. 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree  :  Malvolio  's 
coming  down  this  walk :  he  has  been  yonder  i' 
the  sun  practising  behaviour  to  his  own  shadow 
this  half  hour :  observe  him,  for  the  love  of 
mockery ;  for  I  know  this  letter  will  make  a 
contemplative  idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name 
of  jesting  1  Lie  thou  there  [throws  down  a 
letter] ;  for  here  comes  the  trout  that  must  be 
caught  with  tickling.  [Exit. 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Mal.  Tis  but  fortune  ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria  once 
told  me  she  did  affect  me :  and  I  have  heard 
herself  come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy, 
it  should  be  one  of  my  complexion.  Besides, 
she  uses  me  with  a  more  exalted  respect  than 
any  one  else  that  follows  her.  What  should  I 
think  on 't  ? 

Sir  To.  Here 's  an  overweening  rogue ! 

Fab.  O,  peace!  Contemplation  makes  a  rare 
turkey-cock  of  him :  how  he  jets  under  his 
advanced  plumes ! 

Sir  And.  'Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue ! 

Sir  To.  Peace,  I  say. 

Mal.  To  be  Count  Malvolio  I 

Sir  To.  Ah,  rogue  I 
62 


Act  1 1.     Scene  IV. 

Clown  (sings).  I  am  slain  by  a  fair  and 
cruel  maid  (page  56). 


t.* 


sc.  v.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Sir  And.  Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 

Sir  To.  Peace,  peace  1 

Mal.  There  is  example  for 't ;  the  lady  of  the 
Strachy  married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  And.  Fie  on  him,  Jezebel ! 

Fab.  O,  peace !  now  he 's  deeply  in :  look  how 
imagination  blows  him. 

Mal.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her, 
sitting  in  my  state, — 

Sir  To.  O,  for  a  stone-bow,  to  hit  him  in  the  eye ! 

Mal.  Calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branched 
velvet  gown  ;  having  come  from  a  day  bed,  where 
I  have  left  Olivia  sleeping, — 

Sir  To.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace  ! 

Mal.  And  then  to  have  the  humour  of  state ; 
and  after  a  demure  travel  of  regard,  telling 
them  I  know  my  place  as  I  would  they  should 
do  theirs,  to  ask  for  my  kinsman  Toby, — 

Sir  To.  Bolts  and  shackles  ! 

Fab.  O  peace,  peace,  peace !  now,  now. 

Mal.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient 
start,  make  out  for  him  :  I  frown  the  while ;  and 
perchance  wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  my — 
some  rich  jewel.  Toby  approaches  ;  courtesies 
there  to  me, — 

63 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  ii. 

Sir  To.  Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  with 

cars,  yet  peace. 
Mal.  I  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching 

my  familiar   smile   with   an   austere   regard   of 

control, — 
Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow  o'  the 

lips  then  ? 
Mal.  Saying,  '  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  having 

cast  me  on  your  niece  give  me  this  prerogative  of 

speech,' — 
Sir  To.  What,  what  ? 

Mal.  '  You  must  amend  your  drunkenness.' 
Sir  To.  Out,  scab  ! 
Fab.  Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  of  our 

plot. 
Mal.  '  Besides,   you   waste   the   treasure  of  your 

time  with  a  foolish  knight,' — 
Sir  And.  That 's  me,  I  warrant  you. 
Mal.  '  One  Sir  Andrew,' — 

Sir  And.  I  knew  'twas  I ;  for  many  do  call  me  fool. 
Mal.  What  employment  have  we  here  ? 

[  Taking  up  the  letter. 
Fab.  Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 
Sir  To.  O,   peace  1    and    the    spirit    of    humours 

intimate  reading  aloud  to  him  I 
64 


sc.  v.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Mal.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand  :  these  be 

her  very   C's,  her  U's  and  her  T's  ;   and  thus 

makes  she  her  great  P's.     It  is,  in  contempt  of 

question,  her  hand. 

Sir  And.  Her  C's,    her   U's   and    her  T's :    why 

that? 
Mal.  [Reac/s]  *To  the  unknown  beloved,  this,  and 
my  good  wishes ' : — her  very  phrases  I     By  your 
leave,    wax.       Soft !    and    the    impressure    her 
Lucrece,  with  which  she  uses  to  seal :    'tis  my 
lady.     To  whom  should  this  be  ? 
Fab.  This  wins  him,  liver  and  all. 
Mal.  [Reaii^s] 

Jove  knows  I  love  : 

But  who  ? 
Lips,  do  not  move  ; 
No  man  must  know. 

*  No  man  must  know.'  What  follows  ?  the 
numbers  altered  !  *  No  man  must  know ' :  if  this 
should  be  thee,  Malvolio  ? 

Sir  To.  Marry,  hang  thee,  brock  ! 

Mal.  [/^eads] 

I  may  command  where  I  adore ; 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore  : 
M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life. 
I  65 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  n. 

Fab.  a  fustian  riddle  1 

Sir  To.  Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

Mal.  '  M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life.'     Nay,  but 

first,  let  me  see,  let  me  see,  let  me  see. 
Fab.  What  dish  o'  poison  has  she  dressed  him  ! 
Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  staniel  checks 

at  it! 
Mal.  '  I  may  command  where  I  adore.'    Why,  she 

may  command  me :  I  serve  her ;  she  is  my  lady. 

Why,  this  is  evident   to   any  formal   capacity ; 

there  is  no  obstruction  in  this :    and  the  end, — 

what  should  that  alphabetical  position  portend  ? 

If  I  could  make  that  resemble  something  in  me, 

—Softly !  M,  O,  A,  I,— 
Sir  To.  O,  ay,  make  up  that :  he  is  now  at  a  cold 

scent. 
Fab.  Sowter  will  cry  upon 't  for  all  this,  though  it 

be  as  rank  as  a  fox. 
Mal.  M, — Malvolio;    M, — why,  that    begins    my 

name. 
Fab.   Did  not  I  say  he  would  work  it  out  ?  the  cur 

is  excellent  at  faults. 
Mal.  M, — but  then  there  is  no  consonancy  in  the 

sequel ;  that  suffers  under  probation  :  A  should 

follow,  but  O  does. 
Fab.  And  O  shall  end,  I  hope. 
66 


Act  II.     Scene  IV. 
Clown  (sings).  Lay  me,  O,  where 

Sad  true  lover  never  Jind  my  grave, 
To  weep  there! 

(page  57)- 


•X 


sc.  v.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I  '11  cudgel  him,  and  make  him  cry 
O! 

Mal.  And  then  I  comes  behind. 

Fab.  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you 
might  see  more  detraction  at  your  heels  than 
fortunes  before  you. 

Mal.  M,  O,  a,  I ;  this  simulation  is  not  as  the 
former :  and  yet,  to  crush  this  a  little,  it  would 
bow  to  me,  for  every  one  of  these  letters  are  in 
my  name.  Soft !  here  follows  prose  : 
\Reads\  '  If  this  fall  into  thy  hand,  revolve.  In 
my  stars  I  am  above  thee  ;  but  be  not  afraid  of 
greatness :  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve 
greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon 
'em.  Thy  Fates  open  their  hands  ;  let  thy  blood 
and  spirit  embrace  them ;  and,  to  inure  thyself 
to  what  thou  art  like  to  be,  cast  thy  humble 
slough  and  appear  fresh.  Be  opposite  with  a 
kinsman,  surly  with  servants ;  let  thy  tongue 
tang  arguments  of  state  ;  put  thyself  into  the 
trick  of  singularity :  she  thus  advises  thee  that 
sighs  for  thee.  Remember  who  commended  thy 
yellow  stockings,  and  wished  to  see  thee  ever 
cross-gartered :  I  say,  remember.  Go  to,  thou 
art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be  so ;  if  not,  let 
me  see  thee  a  steward  still,  the  fellow  of  servants, 

67 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  n. 

and  not  worthy  to  touch  Fortune's  fingers. 
Farewell.  She  that  would  alter  services  with 
thee,  The  Fortunate-Unhappy.' 

Daylight  and  champain  discovers  not  more : 
this  is  open.  I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read  politic 
authors,  I  will  baffle  Sir  Toby,  I  will  wash  off 
gross  acquaintance,  I  will  be  point-devise  the 
very  man.  I  do  not  now  fool  myself,  to  let 
imagination  jade  me ;  for  every  reason  excites 
to  this,  that  my  lady  loves  me.  She  did  com- 
mend my  yellow  stockings  of  late,  she  did  praise 
my  leg  being  cross-gartered ;  and  in  this  she 
manifests  herself  to  my  love,  and  with  a  kind  of 
injunction  drives  me  to  these  habits  of  her 
liking.  I  thank  my  stars  I  am  happy.  I  will 
be  strange,  stout,  in  yellow  stockings,  and  cross- 
gartered,  even  with  the  swiftness  of  putting  on. 
Jove  and  my  stars  be  praised !  Here  is  yet  a 
postscript. 

[/^eac^s]  *  Thou  canst  not  choose  but  know  who 
I  am.  If  thou  entertainest  my  love,  let  it  appear 
in  thy  smiling ;  thy  smiles  become  thee  well ; 
therefore  in  my  presence  still  smile,  dear  my 
sweet,  I  prithee.* 

Jove,  I  thank  thee :  I  will  smile ;  I  will  do 
everything  that  thou  wilt  have  me.  [Ext^. 

68 


sc.  v.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a 
pension  of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the 
Sophy. 

Sir  To.  I  could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device. 

Sir  And.  So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her  but  such 
another  jest. 

Sir  And.  Nor  I  neither. 

Fab.  Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 


Re-enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'  my  neck  ? 

Sir  And.  Or  o'  mine  either? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip,  and 
become  thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.  F  faith,  or  I  either? 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a  dream, 
that  when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him  he  must 
run  mad. 

Mar.  Nay,  but  say  true  ;  does  it  work  upon  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Like  aqua-vitae  with  a  midwife. 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport, 
mark  his  first  approach  before  my  lady :  he  will 
come  to  her  in  yellow-stockings,  and  'tis  a  colour 
she  abhors,  and   cross-gartered,   a   fashion  she 

69 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  n. 

detests ;  and  he  will  smile  upon  her,  which  will 
now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her  disposition,  being 
addicted  to  a  melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot 
but  turn  him  into  a  notable  contempt.  If  you 
will  see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most  excellent 
devil  of  wit ! 

Sir  And.  I  '11  make  one  too.  [Exeunt. 


70 


Act  II.     Scene  IV. 
Viola.   She  pined  in  thought  (page  59). 


^W^tr 


SCENE  I 

Olivia's  garden. 

Enter  Viola,  and  Clown  with  a  tabor. 

Vio.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music :  dost  thou 
live  by  thy  tabor  ? 

Clo.  No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church. 

Vio.  Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir  :  I  do  live  by  the  church  ; 
for  I  do  live  at  my  house,  and  my  house  doth 
stand  by  the  church. 

Vio.  So  thou  mayst  say,  the  king  lies  by  a  beggar, 
if  a  beggar  dwell  near  him ;  or,  the  church 
stands  by  thy  tabor,  if  thy  tabor  stand  by  the 
church. 

Clo.  You  have  said,  sir.  To  see  this  age!  A 
sentence  is  but  a  cheveril  glove  to  a  good  wit : 
how  quickly  the  wrong  side  may  be  turned  out- 
ward ! 

Vio.  Nay,    that 's   certain ;  they  that   dally   nicely 
with  words  may  quickly  make  them  wanton. 
K  73 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  m. 

Clo.     I  would,  therefore,  my  sister   had   had  no 

name,  sir. 
Vio.  Why,  man  ? 
Clo.  Why,  sir,  her  name 's  a  word  ;  and  to  dally 

with  that  word  might  make  my  sister  wanton. 

But  indeed  words  are  very  rascals  since  bonds 

disgraced  them. 
Vio.  Thy  reason,  man  ? 
Clo.  Troth,    sir,    I   can   yield   you    none   without 

words  ;  and  words  are  grown  so  false,  I  am  loath 

to  prove  reason  with  them. 
Vio.  I  warrant  thou  art  a  merry  fellow  and  carest 

for  nothing. 
Clo.  Not  so,  sir,    I    do   care  for  something;  but 

in  my  conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you :  if 

that  be  to  care  for  nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would 

make  you  invisible. 
Vio.  Art  not  thou  the  Lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 
Clo.  No,   indeed,    sir ;   the   Lady   Olivia   has    no 

folly:   she  will   keep   no   fool,   sir,   till    she  be 

married ;    and    fools    are   as    like   husbands    as 

pilchards    are   to   herrings ;  the    husband 's   the 

bigger :    I    am   indeed   not    her    fool,   but   her 

corrupter  of  words. 
Vio.  I  saw  thee  late  at  the  Count  Orsino's. 
Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about   the  orb   like 

74 


Act  II.     Scene  V. 

Malvolio.  'Tis  but  fortune ;  all  is  for- 
tune (page  62). 


> 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH   NIGHT 

the  sun,  it  shines  everywhere.  I  would  be 
sorry,  sir,  but  the  fool  should  be  as  oft  with 
your  master  as  with  my  mistress :  I  think  I  saw 
your  wisdom  there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I  '11  no  more 
with  thee.     Hold,  there 's  expenses  for  thee. 

Clo.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair, 
send  thee  a  beard  I 

Vio.  By  my  troth,  I  '11  tell  thee,  I  am  almost  sick 
for  one ;  [^sicie]  though  I  would  not  have  it 
grow  on  my  chin.     Is  thy  lady  within  ? 

Clo.  Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir  ? 

Vio.  Yes,  being  kept  together  and  put  to  use. 

Clo.  I  would  play  Lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia,  sir, 
to  bring  a  Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 

Vio.  I  understand  you,  sir  ;  'tis  well  begged. 

Clo.  The  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir,  begging 
but  a  beggar :  Cressida  was  a  beggar.  My  lady 
is  within,  sir.  I  will  construe  to  them  whence 
you  come ;  who  you  are  and  what  you  would 
are  out  of  my  welkin,  I  might  say  *  element,' 
but  the  word  is  over-worn.  \Exit. 

Vio.  This  fellow  is  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool ; 
And  to  do  that  well  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He    must    observe    their    mood   on   whom    he 
jests, 

75 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time, 

And,  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 

That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice 

As  full  of  labour  as  a  wise  man's  art : 

For  folly  that  he  wisely  shows  is  fit ; 

But  wise  men,  folly-fall'n,  quite  taint  their  wit. 


Enter  Sir  Toby  mid  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Save  you,  gentleman. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 

Vio.  Et  vous  aussi ;  votre  serviteur. 

Sir  And.  I  hope,  sir,  you  are ;  and  I  am  yours. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my  niece 

is  desirous  you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be  to 

her. 
Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir;  I  mean,  she 

is  the  list  of  my  voyage. 
Sir  To.  Taste  your  legs,  sir ;  put  them  to  motion. 
Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand   me,  sir,  than 

I  understand  what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste 

my  legs. 
Sir  To.  I  mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 
Vio.  I  will   answer  you   with   gait   and   entrance. 

But  we  are  prevented. 

76 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Most   excellent   accomplished  lady,  the  heavens 

rain  odours  on  you  ! 
Sir  And.  That    youth 's    a    rare    courtier :    '  Rain 

odours ' ;  well. 
Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your 

own  most  pregnant  and  vouchsafed  ear. 
Sir  And.  '  Odours,'  '  pregnant,'  and  '  vouchsafed ' : 

I  '11  get  'em  all  three  all  ready. 
Oli.  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me  to 

my  hearing.     [Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew, 

and  Maria].     Give  me  your  hand,  sir. 
Vio.  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service. 
Oli.  What  is  your  name  ? 

Vio.  Cesario  is  your  servant's  name,  fair  princess. 
Oli.  My  servant,  sir !     'Twas  never  merry  world 

Since  lowly  feigning  was  call'd  compliment : 

You  're  servant  to  the  Count  Orsino,  youth. 
Vio.  And  he   is  yours,    and    his   must   needs   be 
yours : 

Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 
Oli.  For    him,    I    think    not    on    him :    for    his 
thoughts, 

Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  fill'd  with 
me  I 

77 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

Vio.  Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 
On  his  behalf. 

Oli.  O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you, 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him  : 
But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that 
Than  music  from  the  spheres. 

Vio.  Dear  lady, — 

Oli.  Give  me  leave,  beseech  you.     I  did  send. 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you  :  so  did  I  abuse 
Myself,  my  servant  and,  I  fear  me,  you : 
Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit. 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning. 
Which  you  knew  none  of  yours :   what  might 

you  think? 
Have  you  not  set  mine  honour  at  the  stake 
And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That  tyrannous   heart   can   think?    To   one  of 

your  receiving 
Enough  is  shown  :  a  cypress,  not  a  bosom, 
Hideth  my  heart.     So,  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vio.  I  pity  you. 

Oli.  That 's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.  No,  not  a  grise  ;  for  'tis  a  vulgar  proof, 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

78 


Act  II.     Scene  V. 

Sir  Andrew.  For  many  do  call  me  fool 

(page  64). 


\V  HEATH  ROBINS'- 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Oli.    Why,    then,    methinks    'tis    time    to    smile 
again. 

0  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud ! 
If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 
To  fall  before  the  lion  than  the  wolf! 

\Clock  strikes. 

The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time. 

Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I  will  not  have  you : 

And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest. 

Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man : 

There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 
Vio.  Then  westward-ho ! 

Grace  and  good  disposition  attend  your  ladyship ! 

You  '11  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 
Oli.  Stay : 

1  prithee,  tell  me  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Vio.  That  you   do  think  you   are  not  what  you 

are. 
Oli.  If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 
Vio.  Then  think  you  right :  I  am  not  what  I  am. 
Oli.  I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be ! 
Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am  ? 

I  wish  it  might,  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 
Oli.  O,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 

In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 

A  murderous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 

79 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

Than  love  that  would  seem  hid :  love's  night  is 

noon. 
Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honour,  truth  and  every  thing, 
I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride. 
Nor  wit  nor  reason  can  my  passion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause, 
For  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause ; 
But  rather  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter, 
Love   sought   is  good,  but  given   unsought   is 
better. 

Vio.  By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom  and  one  truth. 
And  that  no  woman  has  ;  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam  ;  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

Oli.    Yet   come  again ;    for  thou   perhaps   mayst 
move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love. 

\ExeMnt. 


80 


SC.   II.] 


SCENE   II 

Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  No,  faith,  I  '11  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 
Sir  To.  Thy  reason,  dear  venom,  give  thy  reason. 
Fab.    You    must    needs    yield    your   reason,    Sir 

Andrew. 
Sir  And.  Marry,  I  saw  your  niece  do  more  favours 

to  the  count's  serving-man  than  ever  she  bestowed 

upon  me ;  I  saw 't  i'  the  orchard. 
Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  ?  tell 

me  that. 
Sir  And.  As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 
Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her 

toward  you. 
Sir  And.  'Slight,  will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me  ? 
Fab.  1  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths 

of  judgement  and  reason. 
Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand-jurymen  since 

before  Noah  was  a  sailor. 
L  8i 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

Fab.  She  did  show  favour  to  the  youth  in  your 
sight  only  to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your 
dormouse  valour,  to  put  fire  in  your  heart,  and 
brimstone  in  your  liver.  You  should  then  have 
accosted  her ;  and  with  some  excellent  jests,  fire- 
new  from  the  mint,  you  should  have  banged  the 
youth  into  dumbness.  This  was  looked  for  at 
your  hand,  and  this  was  balked  :  the  double  gilt 
of  this  opportunity  you  let  time  wash  off,  and 
you  are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's 
opinion  ;  where  you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a 
Dutchman's  beard,  unless  you  do  redeem  it  by 
some  laudable  attempt  either  of  valour  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  An 't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with  valour; 
for  policy  I  hate :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  Brownist  as 
a  politician. 

Sir  To.  Why,  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon 
the  basis  of  valour.  Challenge  me  the  count's 
youth  to  fight  with  him ;  hurt  him  in  eleven 
places :  my  niece  shall  take  note  of  it ;  and 
assure  thyself,  there  is  no  love-broker  in  the 
world  can  more  prevail  in  man's  commendation 
with  woman  than  report  of  valour. 

Fab.  There  is  no  way  but  this,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge 
to  him? 
82 


Act  III.     Scene  I. 
Ci.owN.  No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church 

(page  73)' 


sc.  II.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Sir  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand ;  be  curst 
and  brief;  it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be 
eloquent  and  full  of  invention :  taunt  him  with 
the  license  of  ink :  if  thou  thou'st  him  some 
thrice,  it  shall  not  be  amiss ;  and  as  many  lies 
as  will  lie  in  thy  sheet  of  paper,  although  the 
sheet  were  big  enough  for  the  bed  of  Ware  in 
England,  set  'em  down  :  go,  about  it.  Let  there 
be  gall  enough  in  thy  ink,  though  thou  write 
with  a  goose-pen,  no  matter  :  about  it. 

Sir  And.  Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We'll  call  thee  at  the  cubiculo  :  go. 

\Exit  Sir  Andrew. 

Fab.  This  is  a  dear  manakin  to  you.  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad,  some  two 
thousand  strong,  or  so. 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him :  but 
you  '11  not  deliver 't  ? 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me,  then ;  and  by  all  means 
stir  on  the  youth  to  an  answer.  I  think  oxen 
and  wainropes  cannot  hale  them  together.  For 
Andrew,  if  he  were  opened,  and  you  find  so  much 
blood  in  his  liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea, 
I  '11  eat  the  rest  of  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his 
visage  no  great  presage  of  cruelty. 

83 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine 
comes. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh 
yourselves  into  stitches,  follow  me.  Yond  gull 
Malvolio  is  turned  heathen,  a  very  renegado ; 
for  there  is  no  Christian,  that  means  to  be  saved 
by  believing  rightly,  can  ever  believe  such  im- 
possible passages  of  grossness.  He 's  in  yellow 
stockings. 

Sir  To.  And  cross-gartered  ? 

Mar.  Most  villanously ;  like  a  pedant  that  keeps  a 
school  i'  the  church.  I  have  dogged  him,  like 
his  murderer.  He  does  obey  every  point  of  the 
letter  that  I  dropped  to  betray  him :  he  does 
smile  his  face  into  more  lines  than  is  in  the  new 
map  with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies :  you 
have  not  seen  such  a  thing  as  'tis.  I  can  hardly 
forbear  hurling  things  at  him.  I  know  my  lady 
will  strike  him  :  if  she  do,  he  '11  smile  and  take 't 
for  a  great  favour. 

Sir  To.  Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he  is. 

\Exeunt. 


84 


SC.  III.] 


SCENE   III 

A  street. 

Enter  Sebastian  and  Antonio. 

See.  I  would  not  by  my  will  have  troubled  you  ; 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  further  chide  you. 

Ant.  I  could  not  stay  behind  you  :  my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth ; 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you,  though  so  much 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage. 
But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel. 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts;  which  to  a  stranger, 
Unguided  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable :  my  willing  love, 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

See.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make  but  thanks. 
And  thanks ;  and  ever  ...  oft  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay : 

85 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  hi. 

But,  were  my  worth  as  is  my  conscience  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.     What 's  to  do  ? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Ant.    To-morrow,    sir:    best    first    go    see    your 
lodging. 

Seb.  I  am  not  weary,  and  'tis  long  to  night : 
I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials  and  the  things  of  fame 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  Would  you  'Id  pardon  me  ; 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets  : 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight,  'gainst  the  count  his  galleys 
I  did  some  service ;  of  such  note  indeed. 
That    were    I    ta'en    here    it    would    scarce   be 
answer'd. 

Seb.  Belike  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.  The  offence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody  nature  ; 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time  and  quarrel 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answer'd  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them ;    which,  for  traffic's 

sake, 
Most  of  our  city  did  :  only  myself  stood  out ; 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

See.  Do  not  then  walk  too  open. 

86 


Act  III.     Scene  III. 
Sebastian.  /  do  reyyiember      (page  87). 


sc.  III.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Ant.  It  doth  not  fit  me.      Hold,  sir,  here's  my 
purse. 
In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge :  I  will  bespeak  our  diet. 
Whiles   you    beguile    the    time   and    feed    your 

knowledge 
With  viewing  of  the  town  :  there  shall  you  have 
me. 
Seb.  Why  I  your  purse  ? 

Ant.  Haply  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase  ;  and  your  store, 
I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 
Seb.  I  '11  be  your  purse-bearer  and  leave  you 

For  an  hour. 
Ant.  To  the  Elephant. 

Seb.  I  do  remember. 

\Exetmt. 


87 


[act  III. 


SCENE   IV 

Olivia's  garden. 
Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Oli.  I  have  sent  after  him  :  he  says  he  '11  come  ; 

How  shall  I  feast  him  ?  what  bestow  of  him  ? 

For  youth  is  bought  more  oft  than  begg'd   or 
borrow'd. 

I  speak  too  loud. 

Where  is  Malvolio  ?  he  is  sad  and  civil, 

And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes : 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? 
Mar.  He 's  coming,  madam  ;  but  in  very  strange 

manner.     He  is,  sure,  possessed,  madam. 
Oli.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 
Mar.  No,   madam,   he   does   nothing   but   smile : 

your  ladyship  were   best   to   have  some  guard 

about  you,   if  he   come ;    for,  sure,  the  man  is 

tainted  in  's  wits. 
88 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Oli.  Go  call  him  hither.     \Exit  Maria.]     I  am  as 
mad  as  he, 
If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be. 


Re-enter  Maria,  with  Malvolio. 

How  now,  Malvolio ! 

Mal.  Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho. 

Oli.  Smilest  thou  ? 

I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

Mal.  Sad,  lady !  I  could  be  sad :  this  does 
make  some  obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross- 
gartering  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  if  it  please  the 
eye  of  one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very  true  sonnet 
is,  '  Please  one,  and  please  all.' 

Oli.  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man  ?  what  is  the  matter 
with  thee  ? 

Mal.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in 
my  legs.  It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and 
commands  shall  be  executed :  I  think  we  do 
know  the  sweet  Roman  hand. 

Oli.  Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 

Mal.  To  bed !  ay,  sweet-heart,  and  I  '11  come  to 
thee. 

Oli.  God  comfort  thee !  Why  dost  thou  smile  so 
and  kiss  thy  hand  so  oft  ? 

M  89 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  iii. 

Mar.  How  do  you,  Malvolio? 

Mal.  At  your  request !  yes ;  nightingales  answer 

daws. 
Mar.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  boldness 

before  my  lady  ? 
Mal.  '  Be   not  afraid    of   greatness ' :    'twas   well 

writ. 
Oli.  What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 
Mal.  '  Some  are  born  great,' — 
Oll  Ha! 

Mal.  *  Some  achieve  greatness,* — 
Oli.  What  sayest  thou  ? 
Mal.  'And    some    have    greatness    thrust    upon 

them.' 
Oli.  Heaven  restore  thee  ! 
Mal.  '  Remember    who    commended    thy    yellow 

stockings,' — 
Oli.  Thy  yellow  stockings  ! 
Mal.  *  And  wished  to  see  thee  cross-gartered.' 
Oli.  Cross-gartered ! 
Mal.  *  Go  to,  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to 

be  so ' ; — 
Oli.  Am  I  made? 

Mal.  '  If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still.' 
Oli.  Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness. 


90 


Act  hi.     Scene  IV. 
Malvolio.  Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho  (page  89). 


i  1 1  t:); 


■.'mmmmmmKmMSmB 


iiij 


■^■m--* 

\ 

f 
i 

sc.  IV.]   TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  Count 
Orsino's  is  returned :  I  could  hardly  entreat 
him  back  :  he  attends  your  ladyship's  pleasure. 

Oli.  I  '11  come  to  him.  \Exit  Servant.]  Good 
Maria,  let  this  fellow  be  looked  to.  Where 's 
my  cousin  Toby  ?  Let  some  of  my  people  have 
a  special  care  of  him :  I  would  not  have  him 
miscarry  for  the  half  of  my  dowry. 

[Exeunt  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Mal.  O,  ho !  do  you  come  near  me  now  ?  no 
worse  man  than  Sir  Toby  to  look  to  me !  This 
concurs  directly  with  the  letter :  she  sends  him 
on  purpose,  that  I  may  appear  stubborn  to 
him ;  for  she  incites  me  to  that  in  the  letter. 
*  Cast  thy  humble  slough,'  says  she  ;  *  be  opposite 
with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  servants ;  let  thy 
tongue  tang  with  arguments  of  state  ;  put  thyself 
into  the  trick  of  singularity ' ;  and  consequently 
sets  down  the  manner  how;  as,  a  sad  face,  a 
reverend  carriage,  a  slow  tongue,  in  the  habit 
of  some  sir  of  note,  and  so  forth.  I  have  limed 
her ;  but  it  is  Jove's  doing,  and  Jove  make  me 
thankful !  And  when  she  went  away  now,  *  Let 
this  fellow  be  looked  to ' :  fellow !  not  Malvolio, 

91 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  hi. 

not  after  my  degree,  but  fellow.  Why,  every 
thing  adheres  together,  that  no  dram  of  a 
scruple,  no  scruple  of  a  scruple,  no  obstacle, 
no  incredulous  or  unsafe  circumstance — What 
can  be  said  ?  Nothing  that  can  be  can  come 
between  me  and  the  full  prospect  of  my  hopes. 
Well,  Jove,  not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this,  and  he  is 
to  be  thanked. 


Re-enter  Maria,  with  Sir  Toby  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanctity  ? 

If  all  the  devils  of  hell  be  drawn  in  little,  and 

Legion  himself  possessed  him,  yet    I  '11    speak 

to  him. 
Fab.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is.     How  is 't  with  you, 

sir?  how  is't  with  you,  man? 
Mal.  Go  off;    I   discard  you:    let   me  enjoy  my 

private :  go  off. 
Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within  him  I 

did  not   I  tell  you?     Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays 

you  to  have  a  care  of  him. 
Mal.  Ah,  ha !  does  she  so  ? 
Sir  To.  Go   to,    go   to ;    peace,    peace ;   we    must 

deal    gently  with    him :    let    me    alone.     How 

do  you,  Malvolio  ?  how  is  't  with  you  ?     What, 
92 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

man  !    defy  the  devil :   consider,  he 's  an  enemy 

to  mankind. 
Mal.  Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 
Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil,  how 

he   takes   it   at   heart !      Pray  God,  he   be   not 

bewitched ! 
Fab.  Carry  his  water  to  the  wise  woman. 
Mar.  Marry,    and    it    shall    be    done    to-morrow 

morning,  if  I    live.      My  lady  would  not   lose 

him  for  more  than  I  '11  say. 
Mal.  How  now,  mistress  ! 
Mar.  O  Lord ! 
Sir  To.  Prithee,   hold  thy  peace ;    this  is  not  the 

way :    do  you  not  see  you   move  him  ?    let  me 

alone  with  him. 
Fab.  No  way  but  gentleness ;  gently,  gently :  the 

fiend  is  rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 
Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock !    how  dost 

thou,  chuck  ? 
Mal.  Sir! 
Sir  To.  Ay,  Biddy,  come  with  me.     What,  man ! 

'tis   not  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit  with 

Satan  :  hang  him,  foul  collier ! 
Mar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers,  good  Sir  Toby, 

get  him  to  pray. 
Mal.  My  prayers,  minx ! 

93 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

Mar.  No,  I  warrant  you,  he  will  not  hear  of  godli- 
ness. 

Mal.  Go,  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle  shallow 
things :  I  am  not  of  your  element :  you  shall 
know  more  hereafter.  \Exit. 

Sir  To.  Is 't  possible  ? 

Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now,  I  could 
condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection 
of  the  device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now,  lest  the  device  take 
air  and  taint. 

Fab.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad  indeed. 

Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we'll  have  him  in  a  dark  room  and 
bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that 
he 's  mad  :  we  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure 
and  his  penance,  till  our  very  pastime,  tired  out 
of  breath,  prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on  him :  at 
which  time  we  will  bring  the  device  to  the  bar 
and  crown  thee  for  a  finder  of  madmen.  But 
see,  but  see. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew. 

Fab.  More  matter  for  a  May  morning. 
94 


Act  ill.     Scene  IV. 

Sir  Toby.  Now  will  not  I  deliver  his 
letter  (page  96). 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

Mar.  No,  I  warrant  you,  he  will  not  hear  of  godli- 
ness. 

Mal.  Go,  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle  shallow 
things :  I  am  not  of  your  element :  you  shall 
know  more  hereafter.  \Exit. 

Sir  To.  Is 't  possible  ? 

Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now,  I  could 
condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection 
of  the  device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now,  lest  the  device  take 
air  and  taint. 

Fab.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad  indeed. 

Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we  '11  have  him  in  a  dark  room  and 
bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that 
he 's  mad  :  we  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure 
and  his  penance,  till  our  very  pastime,  tired  out 
of  breath,  prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on  him :  at 
which  time  we  will  bring  the  device  to  the  bar 
and  crown  thee  for  a  finder  of  madmen.  But 
see,  but  see. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew. 

Fab.  More  matter  for  a  May  morning. 
94 


Act  III.     Scene  IV. 

Sir  Toby.  Now  will  not  I  deliver  his 
letter  (page  96). 


€ 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Sir  And.  Here 's  the  challenge,  read  it :  I  warrant 

there 's  vinegar  and  pepper  in 't. 
Fab.  Is't  so  saucy? 

Sir  And.  Ay,  is 't,  I  warrant  him  :  do  but  read. 
Sir  To.  Give   me.       [Reads]    '  Youth,   whatsoever 

thou  art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow.' 
Fab.  Good,  and  valiant. 
Sir  To.  [Reads]  '  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in 

thy  mind,  why  I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show 

thee  no  reason  for 't.' 
Fab.  a  good  note ;  that  keeps  you  from  the  blow 

of  the  law. 
Sir  To.  [Reads]  *  Thou  comes t  to  the  Lady  Olivia, 

and  in  my  sight  she  uses  thee  kindly :  but  thou 

liest  in  thy  throat;    that   is   not  the   matter   I 

challenge  thee  for.' 
Fab.  Very  brief,  and  to  exceeding  good  sense — 

less. 
Sir  To.  [Reads]  '  I  will  waylay  thee  going  home ; 

where  if  it  be  thy  chance  to  kill  me,' — 
Fab.  Good. 
Sir  To.  [Reads]  '  Thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and 

a  villain.' 
Fab.  Still  you  keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the  law : 

good. 
Sir  To.  [Reads]  '  Fare  thee  well ;   and  God  have 

95 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

mercy  upon  one  of  our  souls !  He  may  have 
mercy  upon  mine ;  but  my  hope  is  better,  and 
so  look  to  thyself.  Thy  friend,  as  thou  usest 
him,  and  thy  sworn  enemy, 

Andrew  Aguecheek.' 
If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  cannot :  I  '11 
give 't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for 't :  he  is 
now  in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and  will 
by  and  by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  Sir  Andrew ;  scout  me  for  him  at  the 
corner  of  the  orchard  like  a  bum-baily :  so  soon 
as  ever  thou  seest  him,  draw ;  and,  as  thou 
drawest,  swear  horrible ;  for  it  comes  to  pass  oft 
that  a  terrible  oath,  with  a  swaggering  accent 
sharply  twanged  off,  gives  manhood  more  appro- 
bation than  ever  proof  itself  would  have  earned 
him.     Away ! 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.      \Exit. 

Sir  To.  Now  will  not  I  deliver  his  letter :  for  the 
behaviour  of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out 
to  be  of  good  capacity  and  breeding ;  his  employ- 
ment between  his  lord  and  my  niece  confirms  no 
less :  therefore  this  letter,  being  so  excellently 
ignorant,  will  breed  no  terror  in  the  youth  :  he 
will  find  it  comes  from  a  clodpole.     But,  sir,   I 

96 


sc.  IV.]   TWELFTH    NIGHT 

will  deliver  his  challenge  by  word  of  mouth  ;  set 
upon  Aguecheek  a  notable  report  of  valour ;  and 
drive  the  gentleman,  as  I  know  his  youth  will 
aptly  receive  it,  into  a  most  hideous  opinion  of 
his  rage,  skill,  fury  and  impetuosity.  This  will 
so  fright  them  both  that  they  will  kill  one  another 
by  the  look,  like  cockatrices. 


Re-enter  Olivia,  with  Viola. 

Fab.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece :  give  them 

way  till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  him. 
Sir  To.  I   will    meditate    the  while   upon    some 

horrid  message  for  a  challenge. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Fabian,  and  Maria. 
Oli.  I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 

And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  out : 

There 's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault ; 

But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is. 

That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 
Vio.  With   the   same  'haviour  that  your  passion 
bears 

Goes  on  my  master's  grief. 
Oli.  Here,  wear  this  jewel  for  me,  'tis  my  picture  ; 

Refuse  it  not ;  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you  ; 

And  I  beseech  you  come  again  to-morrow. 
N  97 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  HI. 

What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I  *11  deny, 

That  honour  saved  may  upon  asking  give? 
Vio.  Nothing  but  this  ;    your   true   love   for  my 

master. 
Oli.  How  with  mine  honour  may  I  give  him  that 

Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 
Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

Oli.  Well,  come  again  to-morrow :  fare  thee  well : 

A  fiend  like  thee  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Gentleman,  God  save  thee. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee  to 't : 
of  what  nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast  done 
him,  I  know  not ;  but  thy  intercepter,  full  of 
despite,  bloody  as  the  hunter,  attends  thee  at  the 
orchard-end :  dismount  thy  tuck,  be  yare  in  thy 
preparation,  for  thy  assailant  is  quick,  skilful  and 
deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir;  I  am  sure  no  man  hath 
any  quarrel  to  me :  my  remembrance  is  very  free 
and  clear  from  any  image  of  offence  done  to  any 
man. 

Sir  To.  You  '11  find   it  otherwise,   I   assure  you : 

98 


Act  hi.     Scene  IV. 

Olivia.   Well,   come  again  to-morrow ; 
fare  thee  well  (page  98). 


% 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

therefore,  if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price, 
betake  you  to  your  guard ;  for  your  opposite 
hath  in  him  what  youth,  strength,  skill  and 
wrath  can  furnish  man  withal. 

Vio.  I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he? 

Sir  To.  He  is  knight,  dubbed  with  unhatched 
rapier  and  on  carpet  consideration ;  but  he  is  a 
devil  in  private  brawl :  souls  and  bodies  hath  he 
divorced  three ;  and  his  incensement  at  this 
moment  is  so  implacable,  that  satisfaction  can  be 
none  but  by  pangs  of  death  and  sepulchre.  Hob, 
nob,  is  his  word  ;  give 't  or  take 't. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house  and  desire 
some  conduct  of  the  lady.  I  am  no  fighter.  I 
have  heard  of  some  kind  of  men  that  put  quarrels 
purposely  on  others,  to  taste  their  valour  :  belike 
this  is  a  man  of  that  quirk. 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no ;  his  indignation  derives  itself  out 
of  a  very  competent  injury :  therefore,  get  you 
on  and  give  him  his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not 
to  the  house,  unless  you  undertake  that  with  me 
which  with  as  much  safety  you  might  answer 
him :  therefore,  on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark 
naked;  for  meddle  you  must,  that's  certain,  or 
forswear  to  wear  iron  about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.     I  beseech  you, 

99 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

do  me  this  courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  the 
knight  what  my  offence  to  him  is  :  it  is  something 
of  my  negligence,  nothing  of  my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay  you  by 
this  gentleman  till  my  return.  [Exit. 

Vio.  Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Fab.  I  know  the  knight  is  incensed  against  you, 
even  to  a  mortal  arbitrement;  but  nothing  of 
the  circumstance  more. 

Vio.  I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Fab.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to  read 
him  by  his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him  in 
the  proof  of  his  valour.  He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the 
most  skilful,  bloody  and  fatal  opposite  that  you 
could  possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of  Illyria. 
Will  you  walk  towards  him  ?  I  will  make  your 
peace  with  him  if  I  can. 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for 't :  I  am 
one  that  had  rather  go  with  sir  priest  than  sir 
knight :  I  care  not  who  knows  so  much  of  my 
mettle.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby,  with  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he 's  a  very  devil ;  I  have  not 
seen   such  a  firago.     I   had  a  pass  with   him, 

lOO 


"^ 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

rapier,  scabbard  and  all,  and  he  gives  me  the 
stuck  in  with  such  a  mortal  motion,  that  it  is 
inevitable ;  and  on  the  answer,  he  pays  you  as 
surely  as  your  feet  hit  the  ground  they  step  on. 
They  say  he  has  been  fencer  to  the  Sophy. 

Sir  And.  Pox  on 't,  I  '11  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified : 
Fabian  can  scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And.  Plague  on 't,  an  I  thought  he  had  been 
valiant  and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I  'Id  have  seen 
him  damned  ere  I  'Id  have  challenged  him. 
Let  him  let  the  matter  slip,  and  I  '11  give  him 
my  horse,  grey  Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I  '11  make  the  motion :  stand  here,  make 
a  good  show  on 't :  this  shall  end  without  the 
perdition  of  souls.  [Aside]  Marry,  I  '11  ride  your 
horse  as  well  as  I  ride  you. 

Re-enter  Fabian  and  Viola. 

\To  Fab.]  I  have  his  horse  to  take  up  the 
quarrel :  I  have  persuaded  him  the  youth 's  a 
devil. 
Fab.  He  is  as  horribly  conceited  of  him ;  and 
pants  and  looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at  his 
heels. 

lOI 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  hi. 

Sir  To.  [To  Vio.]  There's  no  remedy,  sir  ;  he  will 
fight  with  you  for 's  oath  sake :  marry,  he  hath 
better  bethought  him  of  his  quarrel,  and  he  finds 
that  now  scarce  to  be  worth  talking  of:  therefore 
draw,  for  the  supportance  of  his  vow ;  he  protests 
he  will  not  hurt  you. 

Vio.  [^side]  Pray  God  defend  me  !  A  little  thing 
would  make  me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of 
a  man. 

Fab.  Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.  Come,  Sir  Andrew,  there 's  no  remedy ; 
the  gentleman  will,  for  his  honour's  sake,  have 
one  bout  with  you ;  he  cannot  by  the  duello 
avoid  it :  but  he  has  promised  me,  as  he  is  a 
gentleman  and  a  soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you. 
Come  on  ;  to 't. 

Sir  And.  Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath ! 

Vio.  I  do  assure  you,  'tis  against  my  will. 

[  T/iey  draw. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  Put  up  your  sword.     If  this  young  gentle- 
man 
Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me : 
If  you  offend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you. 
1 02 


Act  III.     Scene  IV. 

Sir  Andrew.  Pray  God, he  keep  his  oath! 

(page  102). 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Sir  To.  You,  sir !  why,  what  are  you  ? 
Ant.  One,   sir,   that    for    his    love   dares   yet   do 
more 
Than   you   have   heard   him    brag    to    you    he 
will. 
Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,  I  am  for 
you.  \They  draw. 

Enter  Officers. 

Fab.  O  good    Sir  Toby,   hold !    here    come    the 

officers. 
Sir  To.  I  '11  be  with  you  anon. 
Vio.  Pray,  sir,  put  your  sword  up,  if  you  please. 
Sir  And.  Marry,   will    I,    sir ;     and,    for    that   I 

promised  you,  I  '11  be  as  good  as  my  word  :    he 

will  bear  you  easily  and  reins  well. 
First  Off.  This  is  the  man  ;  do  thy  office. 
Sec.  Off.  Antonio,   I    arrest  thee  at  the  suit  of 

Count  Orsino. 
Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 
First  Off.  No,  sir,  no  jot ;  I   know  your  favour 
well, 

Though    now    you   have   no   sea-cap    on    your 
head. 

Take  him  away :  he  knows  I  know  him  well. 

103 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

Ant.  I    must  obey.    [To  Vio.]  This   comes  with 

seeking  you : 
But  there 's  no  remedy ;  I  shall  answer  it. 
What  will  you  do,  now  my  necessity 
Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse  ?     It  grieves 

me 
Much  more  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you 
Than  what  befalls  myself.     You  stand  amazed  ; 
But  be  of  comfort. 
Sec.  Off.  Come,  sir,  away. 
Ant.  I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money. 
Vio.  What  money,  sir  ? 

For  the    fair    kindness   you   have    show'd    me 

here. 
And,   part,    being    prompted    by  your    present 

trouble, 
Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 
I  *11   lend  you    something :    my  having   is    not 

much ; 
I  '11  make  division  of  my  present  with  you  : 
Hold,  there 's  half  my  coffer. 
Ant.  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 

Is 't  possible  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can     lack     persuasion  ?       Do    not    tempt    my 

misery, 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man 

104 


sc.  IV.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Vio.  I  know  of  none  ; 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice  or  any  feature : 
I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man 
Than  lying  vainness,  babbling  drunkenness, 
Or  any  taint  of  vice  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  O  heavens  themselves ! 

Sec.  Off.  Come,  sir,  I  pray  you,  go. 

Ant.  Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth  that  you 
see  here 
I  snatch'd  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death, 
Relieved  him  with  such  sanctity  of  love, 
And     to     his     image,    which     methought     did 

promise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I  devotion. 

First  Off.  What 's  that  to  us  ?    The  time  goes 
by :  away ! 

Ant.  But  O  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god  1 
Thou     hast,     Sebastian,     done     good     feature 

shame. 
In  nature  there's  no  blemish  but  the  mind ; 
None  can  be  call'd  deform'd  but  the  unkind : 
Virtue  is  beauty,  but  the  beauteous-evil 
Are  empty  trunks  o'erflourish'd  by  the  devil, 
o  105 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  III. 

First  Off.  The  man  grows  mad  :  away  with  him  1 

Come,  come,  sir. 
Ant.  Lead  me  on.  \Exit  with  Officers. 

Vio.  Methinks   his  words  do  from  such  passion 

fly. 

That  he  believes  himself:  so  do  not  I. 
Prove  true,  imagination,  O,  prove  true. 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  1 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight ;  come  hither, 
Fabian :  we  '11  whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of 
most  sage  saws. 

Vio.  He  named  Sebastian  :  I  my  brother  know 
Yet  living  in  my  glass  ;  even  such  and  so 
In  favour  was  my  brother,  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  colour,  ornament, 
For  him  I  imitate :  O,  if  it  prove, 
Tempests  are  kind  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love. 

\Exit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest  paltry  boy,  and  more 
a  coward  than  a  hare :  his  dishonesty  appears 
in  leaving  his  friend  here  in  necessity  and  deny- 
ing him  ;  and  for  his  cowardship,  ask  Fabian. 

Fab.  a  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  religious 
in  it. 

Sir  And.    'Slid,    I  '11   after   him   again   and   beat 
him. 
io6 


Act  IV.     Scene  II. 

Clown.  Sayest  thou  that  house  is  dark? 

(page  1 1 6) 


KiU    I 


sc.  IV.]  TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Sir  To.  Do  ;  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw  thy 

sword. 
Sir  And.  An  I  do  not, —  [Exit. 

Fab.  Come,  let 's  see  the  event. 
Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money  'twill  be  nothing  yet. 

[Exeunt. 


107 


Act  IV.     Scene  II. 

Malvolio.     They  have  here  propertied 
me ;  keep  me  in  darkness 
(page  119). 


SCENE   I 

Before  Olivia's  house. 
Enter  Sebastian  and  Clown. 

Clo.  Will  you  make  me  believe  that  I  am  not  sent 
for  you  ? 

Seb.  Go  to,  go  to,  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow : 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Clo.  Well  held  out,  i'  faith !  No,  I  do  not  know 
you ;  nor  I  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady,  to 
bid  you  come  speak  with  her ;  nor  your  name  is 
not  Master  Cesario;  nor  this  is  not  my  nose 
neither.     Nothing  that  is  so  is  so. 

Seb.  I  prithee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else  : 
Thou  know'st  not  me. 

Clo.  Vent  my  folly !  he  has  heard  that  word  of 
some  great  man  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool. 
Vent  my  folly !  I  am  afraid  this  great  lubber,  the 
world,  will  prove  a  cockney.  I  prithee  now,  un- 
gird  thy  strangeness  and  tell  me  what   I  shall 

III 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  iv. 

vent  to  my  lady :  shall  I  vent  to  her  that  thou 

art  coming  ? 
Seb.  I  prithee,  foolish  Greek,  depart  from  me : 

There 's  money  for  thee  :  if  you  tarry  longer, 

I  shall  give  worse  payment. 
Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand.     These 

wise  men  that  give  fools  money  get  themselves  a 

good  report,  after  fourteen  years'  purchase. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew,  Sir  Toby,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ?  there  *s 

for  you. 
Seb.  Why,  there  *s  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there. 

Are  all  the  people  mad  ? 
Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I  '11  throw  your  dagger  o'er 

the  house. 
Clo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight :    I  would 

not  be  in  some  of  your  coats  for  two  pence. 

\Exit. 
Sir  To.  Come  on,  sir ;  hold. 
Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone  :  I  '11  go  another  way 

to  work  with  him  ;  I  '11  have  an  action  of  battery 

against   him,   if    there   be   any   law   in    Illyria : 

though  I  struck  him  first,  yet  it 's  no  matter  for 

that. 
Seb.  Let  go  thy  hand. 

112 


sc.  i]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.     Come, 

my  young  soldier,  put  up  your  iron  :   you  are 

well  fleshed  ;  come  on. 
Seb.  I  will  be  free  from  thee.     What  wouldst  thou 

now?     If  thou   darest  tempt  me  further,   draw 

thy  sword. 
Sir  To.  What,  what  ?     Nay,  then  I  must  have  an 

ounce  or  two  of  this  malapert  blood  from  you. 


Enter  Olivia. 

Oli.  Hold,  Toby  ;  on  thy  life  I  charge  thee,  hold  ! 
Sir  To.  Madam  I 

Oli.  Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?     Ungracious  wretch, 
Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves, 
Where  manners  ne'er  were  preach'd !  out  of  my 

sight ! 
Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario. 
Rudesby,  be  gone ! 
[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 

I  prithee,  gentle  friend, 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent 
Against  thy  peace.     Go  with  me  to  my  house. 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botch'd  up,  that  thou  thereby 
p  113 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  IV. 

Mayst  smile  at  this:  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go: 
Do  not  deny.     Beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 
He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 

Seb.  What  relish  is  in  this  ?  how  runs  the  stream  ? 
Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream : 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep ; 
If  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep  1 

Oli.  Nay,  come,   I   prithee ;    would   thou  'Idst   be 
ruled  by  me  1 

Seb.  Madam,  I  will. 

Oli.  O,  say  so,  and  so  be  !     [Exeuni. 


114 


Act  IV.     Scene  III. 

Olivia.  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine 

(page  122). 


SC.  II.] 


SCENE    II 

Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  prithee,  put  on  this  gown  and  this 
beard ;  make  him  believe  thou  art  Sir  Topas  the 
curate :  do  it  quickly ;  I  '11  call  Sir  Toby  the 
whilst.  .  [Exit. 

Clo.  Well,  I  '11  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble 
myself  in 't ;  and  I  would  I  were  the  first  that 
ever  dissembled  in  such  a  gown.  I  am  not  tall 
enough  to  become  the  function  well,  nor  lean 
enough  to  be  thought  a  good  student ;  but  to  be 
said  an  honest  man  and  a  good  housekeeper  goes 
as  fairly  as  to  say  a  careful  man  and  a  great 
scholar.     The  competitors  enter. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Jove  bless  thee,  master  Parson. 
Clo.  Bonos  dies,  Sir  Toby :  for,  as  the  old  hermit 
of  Prague,  that  never   saw  pen  and    ink,  very 

115 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  IV. 

wittily  said  to  a  niece  of  King  Gorboduc,  *  That 

that  is  is ';  so  I,  being  master  Parson,  am  master 

Parson  ;  for,  what  is  *  that '  but  '  that,'  and  '  is ' 

but  '  is '  ? 
Sir  To.  To  him,  Sir  Topas. 
Clo.  What,  ho,  I  say !  peace  in  this  prison  ! 
Sir  To.    The  knave    counterfeits  well ;    a    good 

knave. 
Mal.  [JVithin]  Who  calls  there? 
Clo.    Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes   to  visit 

Malvolio  the  lunatic. 
Mal.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas,  good  Sir  Topas,  go 

to  my  lady. 
Clo.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend !  how  vexest  thou  this 

man  !  talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 
Sir  To.  Well  said,  master  Parson. 
Mal.   Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  wronged : 

good  Sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I  am  mad :  they 

have  laid  me  here  in  hideous  darkness. 
Clo.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Satan  !  I  call  thee  by  the 

most  modest  terms  ;  for  I  am  one  of  those  gentle 

ones  that  will  use  the  devil  himself  with  courtesy: 

sayest  thou  that  house  is  dark  ? 
Mal.  As  hell.  Sir  Topas. 
Clo.   Why,  it  hath  bay  windows  transparent  as 

barricadoes,    and    the    clearstories    toward    the 
ii6 


sc.  II.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

south  north  are  as  lustrous  as  ebony ;   and  yet 
complainest  thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mal.  I  am  not  mad,  Sir  Topas  :  I  say  to  you,  this 
house  is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest :  I  say,  there  is  no 
darkness  but  ignorance ;  in  which  thou  art  more 
puzzled  than  the  Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mal.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance, 
though  ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell ;  and  I 
say,  there  was  never  man  thus  abused.  I  am  no 
more  mad  than  you  are :  make  the  trial  of  it  in 
any  constant  question. 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concerning 
wild  fowl  ? 

Mal.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply 
inhabit  a  bird. 

Clo.  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mal.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  approve 
his  opinion. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well.  Remain  thou  still  in  dark- 
ness :  thou  shalt  hold  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras 
ere  I  will  allow  of  thy  wits,  and  fear  to  kill  a 
woodcock,  lest  thou  dispossess  the  soul  of  thy 
grandam.     Fare  thee  well. 

Mal.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas  ! 

Sir  To.  My  most  exquisite  Sir  Topas  ! 

117 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  iv. 

Clo.  Nay,  I  am  for  all  waters. 

Mar.  Thou  mightst  have  done  this  without  thy 
beard  and  gown  :  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring 
me  word  how  thou  findest  him :  I  would  we 
were  well  rid  of  this  knavery.  If  he  may  be 
conveniently  delivered,  I  would  he  were,  for  I 
am  now  so  far  in  offence  with  my  niece  that  I 
cannot  pursue  with  any  safety  this  sport  to  the 
upshot.     Come  by  and  by  to  my  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Clo.  \Singing\  *  Hey,  Robin,  jolly  Robin, 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does.' 

Mal.  Fool ! 

Clo.  '  My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy.' 

Mal.  Fool! 

Clo.  '  Alas,  why  is  she  so  ? ' 

Mal.  Fool,  I  say  ! 

Clo.  *  She  loves  another ' — Who  calls,  ha  ? 

Mal.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve  well  at 
my  hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink  and 
paper :  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will  live  to  be 
thankful  to  thee  for 't. 

Clo.  Master  Malvolio  ? 

Mal.  Ay,  good  fool. 
1x8 


Act  V.     Scene  I. 

Fabian.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak 

(page  142). 


Aji^i  :)gnq 


^1                                  t.-)^H^^^B^^^^^^^^^H^^H 

HS/KTl  ■                                                                                                                                                           \ 

sc.  II.]    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Clo.  Alas,    sir,    how  fell   you    besides   your   five 

wits  ? 
Mal.  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notoriously 

abused :    I    am    as   well    in    my   wits,    fool,   as 

thou  art. 
Clo.  But  as  well  ?  then  you  are  mad  indeed,  if  you 

be  no  better  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 
Mal.  They  have  here  propertied  me ;  keep  me  in 

darkness,  send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all 

they  can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 
Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say ;   the  minister  is 

here.     Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  wits  the  heavens 

restore  1    endeavour  thyself  to  sleep,  and  leave 

thy  vain  bibble  babble. 
Mal.  Sir  Topas ! 
Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow. 

Who,  I,  sir?  not  I,  sir.     God  be  wi'  you,  good 

Sir  Topas.     Marry,  amen.     I  will,  sir,  I  will. 
Mal.  Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say ! 
Clo.  Alas,   sir,  be   patient.      What  say  you,  sir? 

I  am  shent  for  speaking  to  you. 
Mal.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light  and  some 

paper :  I  tell  thee,  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits  as 

any  man  in  Illyria. 
Clo.  Well-a-day  that  you  were,  sir  ! 
Mal.  By  this  hand,  I  am.     Good  fool,  some  ink, 

119 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  iv. 

paper   and    light ;    and  convey  what  I  will  set 

down  to  my  lady :  it  shall  advantage  thee  more 

than  ever  the  bearing  of  letter  did. 
Clo.  I    will    help   you   to 't.     But    tell    me    true, 

are    you    not    mad    indeed  ?     or    do    you    but 

counterfeit  ? 
Mal.  Believe  me,  I  am  not ;  I  tell  thee  true. 
Clo.  Nay,  I  '11  ne'er  believe  a  madman  till  I  see 

his  brains.      I  will  fetch  you  light  and    paper 

and  ink. 
Mal.  Fool,  I  '11  requite  it  in  the  highest  degree :  I 

prithee,  be  gone. 

Clo.  [Singing]  I  am  gone,  sir, 

And  anon,  sir, 
I  '11  be  with  you  again, 

In  a  trice, 

Like  to  the  old  Vice, 
Your  need  to  sustain  ; 
Who,  with  dagger  of  lath. 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 

Cries,  ah,  ha !  to  the  devil : 
Like  a  mad  lad, 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad  ; 

Adieu,  goodman  devil.  [Hxit. 


120 


SC.  III.] 


SCENE   III 

Olivia's  garden. 

Enter  Sebastian. 

Seb.  This  is  the  air ;  that  is  the  glorious  sun  ; 
This  pearl  she  gave  me,  I  do  feel 't  and  see  't ; 
And  though  'tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet  'tis  not  madness.     Where 's  Antonio,  then  ? 
I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant : 
Yet  there  he  was ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit, 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service ; 
For  though   my   soul    disputes   well   with    my 

sense. 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness, 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse. 
That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes. 
And  wrangle  with  my  reason  that  persuades  me 
To  any  other  trust,  but  that  I  am  mad. 
Or  else  the  lady 's  mad  ;  yet,  if  'twere  so, 

Q  121 


TWELFTH    NIGHT  [act  IV. 

She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command   her 

followers, 
Take  and  give  back  affairs  and  their  dispatch 
With  such  a  smooth,  discreet  and  stable  bearing 
As  I  perceive  she  does :  there 's  something  in 't 
That  is  deceiveable.     But  here  the  lady  comes. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Priest. 

Oli.  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine.     If  you  mean 
well, 
Now  go  with  me  and  with  this  holy  man 
Into  the  chantry  by  :  there,  before  him. 
And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof. 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith  ; 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace.     He  shall  conceal  it 
Whiles  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note, 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth.     What  do  you  say  ? 
Seb.  I  '11    follow   this    good    man,    and    go   with 
you; 
And,  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 
Oli.  Then  lead  the  way,  good  father ;  and  heavens 
so  shine. 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  I 

{Exeunt. 

122 


Act  V.     Scene  I. 

Clown  (sings).   When  that  I  was  and  a 
little  tiny  boy 

(page  143). 


1^&^lC^' 


ACT  V 


SCENE   I 

Before  Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Clown  and  Fabian. 

Fab.  Now,  as   thou   lovest  me,    let    me  see   his 

letter. 
Clo.  Good    Master    Fabian,    grant    me    another 

request. 
Fab.  Any  thing. 

Clo.  Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 
Fab.  This  is,  to  give  a  dog,  and  in  recompense 

desire  my  dog  again. 

Enter  Duke,  Viola,  Curio,  and  Lords. 

Duke.  Belong  you  to  the  Lady  Olivia,  friends  ? 
Clo.  Ay,  sir ;  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 
Duke.  I  know  thee  well :  how  dost  thou,  my  good 

fellow  ? 
Clo.  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes  and   the 

worse  for  my  friends. 

125 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

Duke.  Just  the  contrary;  the  better  for  thy 
friends. 

Clo.  No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  they  praise  me  and  make  an  ass 
of  me ;  now  my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I  am  an 
ass :  so  that  by  my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  in  the 
knowledge  of  myself,  and  by  my  friends  I  am 
abused :  so  that,  conclusions  to  be  as  kisses,  if 
your  four  negatives  make  your  two  affirmatives, 
why  then,  the  worse  for  my  friends  and  the 
better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.  Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no ;  though  it  please  you 
to  be  one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me  :  there's 
gold. 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I 
would  you  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.  O,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  this 
once,  and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner,  to  be  a 
double-dealer :  there 's  another. 

Clo.  Primo,  secundo,  tertio,  is  a  good  play;  and 
the  old  saying  is,  the  third  pays  for  all :  the 
126 


Act  V.     Scene  I. 

Clown  (sings).  For  the  rain  it  raineth 
every  day    (page  143). 


1| 


M- 


i 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

triplex,  sir,  is  a  good  tripping  measure ;  or  the 
bells  of  Saint  Bennet,  sir,  may  put  you  in 
mind  ;  one,  two,  three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me  at 
this  throw :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know  I  am 
here  to  speak  with  her,  and  bring  her  along  with 
you,  it  may  awake  my  bounty  further: 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty  till  I  come 
again.  I  go,  sir ;  but  I  would  not  have  you  to 
think  that  my  desire  of  having  is  the  sin  of 
covetousness :  but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let  your 
bounty  take  a  nap,  I  will  awake  it  anon.     [Exit. 

Vio.  Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did  rescue  me. 


Enter  Antonio  and  Officers. 

Duke.  That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well ; 
Yet,  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmear'd 
As  black  as  Vulcan  in  the  smoke  of  war : 
A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of, 
For  shallow  draught  and  bulk  unprizable  ; 
With  which  such  scathful  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet. 
That  very  envy  and  the  tongue  of  loss 
Cried  fame  and  honour  on   him.      What's   the 
matter  ? 

127 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

First  Off.  Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio 
That  took  the   Phoenix   and   her   fraught   from 

Candy ; 
And  this  is  he  that  did  the  Tiger  board, 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg  : 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state, 
In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vio.  He  did  me  kindness,  sir,  drew  on  my  side ; 
But  in  conclusion  put  strange  speech  upon  me  : 
I  know  not  what  'twas  but  distraction. 

Duke.  Notable  pirate  1  thou  salt-water  thief! 
What   foolish   boldness   brought   thee   to   their 

mercies, 
Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody  and  so  dear. 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

Ant.  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleased  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give 

me: 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief  or  pirate, 
Though  I  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 
Orsino's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither : 
That  most  ingrateful  boy  there  by  your  side. 
From  the  rude  sea's  enraged  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I  redeem  ;  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was  : 
His  life  I  gave  him  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint, 
128 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH   NIGHT 

All  his  in  dedication  ;  for  his  sake 
Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love, 
Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town  ; 
Drew  to  defend  him  when  he  was  beset : 
Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning. 
Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger. 
Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance. 
And  grew  a  twenty  years  removed  thing 
While  one  would  wink ;  denied   me   mine  own 

purse, 
Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 
Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Vio.  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.  When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Ant.  To-day,  my  lord  ;  and  for  three  months  before, 
No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy. 
Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Here  comes  the  countess :  now  heaven 
walks  on  earth. 

But  for  thee,  fellow ;  fellow,  thy  words  are  mad- 
ness : 

Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me ; 

But  more  of  that  anon.     Take  him  aside. 

R  129 


TWELFTH    NIGHT   [act  v. 

Oli.  What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he   may  not 
have, 

Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? 

Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 
Vio.  Madam! 
Duke.  Gracious  Olivia, — 

Oli.  What  do  you  say,  Cesario  ?    Good  my  lord, — 
Vio.  My  lord  would  speak ;  my  duty  hushes  me. 
Oli.  If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord. 

It  is  as  fat  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear 

As  howling  after  music. 
Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

Oli.  Still  so  constant,  lord. 
Duke.  What,  to  perverseness  ?  you  uncivil  lady. 

To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 

My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offerings  hath  breathed 
out 

That  e'er  devotion  tender'd !     What  shall  I  do  ? 
Oli.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  be- 
come him. 
Duke.  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 

Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief  at  point  of  death, 

Kill  what  I  love  ? — a  savage  jealousy 

That   sometime   savours   nobly.     But   hear   me 
this : 

Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 

130 


Act  V.     Scene  I. 
Clown  (sings).  '  Gainst  knaves  and  thieves 


men  shut  their  gate 


(page  143). 


WMiAfU,  HoatHSOW 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 

That   screws   me   from    my  true  place   in  your 

favour, 
Live  you  the  marble-breasted  tyrant  still ; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom  I  know  you  love, 
And  whom,  by  heaven  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite. 
Come,  boy,  with  me  ;  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in 

mischief: 
I  '11  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love, 
To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove. 

Vio.  And  I,  most  jocund,  apt  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

Oli.  Where  goes  Cesario  ? 

Vio.  After  him  I  love 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life. 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife. 
If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above 
Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love ! 

Oli.  Ay  me,  detested  !  how  am  I  beguiled ! 

Vio.  Who   does   beguile  you?  who   does   do   you 
wrong  ? 

Oli.  Hast  thou  forgot  thyself?  is  it  so  long? 
Call  forth  the  holy  father. 

Duke.  Come,  away ! 

131 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

Oli.  Whither,  my  lord  ?    Cesario,  husband,  stay. 

Duke.  Husband ! 

Oli.  Ay,  husband  :  can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.  Her  husband,  sirrah  ! 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

Oli.  Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear 

That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety  : 

Fear  not,  Cesario  ;  take  thy  fortunes  up  ; 

Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou 
art 

As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st. 


Enter  Priest. 

O,  welcome,  father  I 
Father,  I  charge  thee,  by  thy  reverence. 
Here  to  unfold,  though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  'tis  ripe,  what  thou  dost  know 
Hath  newly  pass'd  between  this  youth  and  me. 
Priest,  A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love. 
Confirmed  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  rings  ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Seal'd  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 
132 


sc.  I.]      TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my 

grave 
I  have  travell'd  but  two  hours. 
Duke.  O  thou  dissembling  cub !    what  wilt  thou 
be 
When  time  hath  sow'd  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ? 
Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow. 
That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 
Farewell,  and  take  her ;  but  direct  thy  feet 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  m^y  never  meet. 
Vio.  My  lord,  I  do  protest — 
Oli.  O,  do  not  swear ! 

Hold   little   faith,  though   thou   hast  too  much 
fear. 


Enter  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  For  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon  !     Send 

one  presently  to  Sir  Toby. 
Oli.  What 's  the  matter  ? 
Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across  and  has 

given  Sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too :    for  the 

love  of  God,  your  help  !     I  had  rather  than  forty 

pound  I  were  at  home. 
Oli.  Who  has  done  this.  Sir  Andrew  ? 
Sir  And.  The  count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario :  we 

133 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

took  him  for  a  coward,  but  he 's  the  very  devil 

incardinate. 
Duke.  My  gentleman,  Cesario? 
Sir  And.  'Od's  lifelings,  here  he  is !     You  broke 

my  head  for  nothing ;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was 

set  on  to  do  't  by  Sir  Toby. 
Vio.  Why  do  you  speak  to  me?      I    never  hurt 
you : 

You  drew  your  sword  upon  me  without  cause  ; 

But  I  bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 
Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you  have 

hurt  me :  I  think  you  set  nothing  by  a  bloody 

coxcomb. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  and  Clown. 

Here  comes  Sir  Toby  halting;   you  shall  hear 

more :  but  if  he  had  not  been  in  drink,  he  would 

have  tickled  you  othergates  than  he  did. 
Duke.  How  now,  gentleman  !  how  is 't  with  you  ? 
Sir  To.  That 's  all  one :  has  hurt  me,  and  there 's 

the  end   on't.      Sot,   didst    see   Dick  surgeon, 

sot  ? 
Clo.  O,  he  's  drunk.  Sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone ;  his 

eyes  were  set  at  eight  i'  the  morning. 
Sir  To.  Then  he 's  a  rogue,  and  a  passy  measures 

pavin  :  I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 
134 


Act  V.     Scene  I. 

Clown  (sings).  But  when  I  came,  alas! 
to  wive        (page  144). 


\n^  ? 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Oli.  Away  with  him  I     Who  hath  made  this  havoc 

with  them  ? 
Sir  And.  I  *11  help  you,  Sir  Toby,  because  we  '11  be 

dressed  together. 
Sir  To.  Will  you  help  ?   an  ass-head  and  a  cox- 
comb and  a  knave,  a  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull ! 
Oli.  Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  look'd  to. 
[Exeunt  Clown,  Fabian,  Sir  Toby,  and 
Sir  Andrew. 

Enter  Sebastian. 

Seb.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  hurt  your  kins- 
man ; 
But,  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 
I  must  have  done  no  less  with  wit  and  safety. 
You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and  by 

that 
I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you : 
Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 
We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 
Duke.  One   face,   one  voice,   one   habit,  and   two 
persons, 
A  natural  perspective,  that  is  and  is  not ! 
Seb.  Antonio,  O  my  dear  Antonio  ! 

How  have  the  hours  rack'd  and  tortured  me, 
Since  I  have  lost  thee  I 

135 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

Ant.  Sebastian  are  you  ? 

Seb.  Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant.  How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself? 
An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures.     Which  is  Sebastian  ? 

Oli.  Most  wonderful ! 

Seb.  Do  I  stand  there  ?     I  never  had  a  brother  ; 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature. 
Of  here  and  every  where.     I  had  a  sister, 
Whom   the   blind  waves   and  surges   have   de- 

vour'd. 
Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ? 
What  countryman  ?  what  name  ?  what  parentage  ? 

Vio.  Of  Messaline  :  Sebastian  was  my  father ; 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too. 
So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb  : 
If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit 
You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seb.  a  spirit  I  am  indeed  ; 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad 
Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 
Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 
And  say,  '  Thrice-welcome,  drowned  Viola ! ' 

Vio.  My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

Seb.  And  so  had  mine. 
136 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Vio.  And   died   that   day  when   Viola   from    her 
birth 
Had  number'd  thirteen  years. 

Seb.  O,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 
He  finished  indeed  his  mortal  act 
That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

Vio.  If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both 
But  this  my  masculine  usurp'd  attire, 
Do  not  embrace  me  till  each  circumstance 
Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere  and  jump 
That  I  am  Viola :  which  to  confirm, 
I  '11  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town. 
Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds ;  by  whose  gentle 

help 
I  was  preserved  to  serve  this  noble  count. 
All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 
Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

Seb.  [To  Olivia]  So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been 
mistook : 
But  nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that. 
You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid ; 
Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceived. 
You  are  betroth'd  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.  Be  not  amazed  ;  right  noble  is  his  blood. 
If  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 
I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck, 
s  137 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

[To  Viola]  Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand 

times 
Thou  never  shouldst  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.  And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear ; 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand  ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.  The  captain  that  did  bring  me  first  on  shore 
Hath  my  maid's  garments  :  he  upon  some  action 
Is  now  in  durance,  at  Malvolio's  suit, 
A  gentleman,  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

Oli.  He  shall  enlarge  him  :  fetch  Malvolio  hither  : 
And  yet,  alas,  now  I  remember  me, 
They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he 's  much  distract. 


Re-enter  Clown  with  a  letter,  and  Fabian. 

A  most  extracting  frenzy  of  mine  own 
From  my  remembrance  clearly  banish'd  his. 
How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 
Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he   holds  Beelzebub    at    the 
stave's  end  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may  do : 
has  here  writ  a  letter  to  you ;    I    should   have 
given  't  you  to-day  morning,  but  as  a  madman's 
138 


Act  V.     Scene  I. 

Clown  (sings).   With  toss-pots  still  had 
drunken  heads 

(page  144). 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

epistles  are  no  gospels,  so  it  skills  not  much 
when  they  are  delivered. 

Oli.  Open 't,  and  read  it. 

Clo.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified  when  the  fool 
delivers  the  madman.  [J^eads]  *  By  the  Lord, 
madam,' — 

Oli.  How  now !  art  thou  mad  ? 

Clo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness :  an  your 
ladyship  will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  must 
allow  Vox. 

Oli.  Prithee,  read  i'  thy  right  wits. 

Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right  wits 
is  to  read  thus :  therefore  perpend,  my  princess, 
and  give  ear. 

Oli.  Read  it  you,  sirrah.  [To  Fabian. 

Fab.  [Reads]  '  By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  wrong 
me,  and  the  world  shall  know  it :  though  you 
have  put  me  into  darkness  and  given  your 
drunken  cousin  rule  over  me,  yet  have  I  the 
benefit  of  my  senses  as  well  as  your  ladyship. 
I  have  your  own  letter  that  induced  me  to  the 
semblance  I  put  on  ;  with  the  which  I  doubt  not 
but  to  do  myself  much  right,  or  you  much 
shame.  Think  of  me  as  you  please.  I  leave 
my  duty  a  little  unthought  of  and  speak  out  of 
my  injury.  The  madly-used  Malvolio.' 

139 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

Oli.  Did  he  write  this  ? 
Clo.  Ay,  madam. 

Duke.  This  savours  not  much  of  distraction. 
Oli.  See  him  deliver'd,  Fabian  ;  bring  him  hither. 

[Exif  Fabian. 
My  lord,  so   please   you,    these    things   further 

thought  on, 
To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife, 
One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on 't,  so  please 

you. 
Here  at  my  house  and  at  my  proper  cost. 
Duke.  Madam,  I  am  most  apt  to  embrace  your 
offer. 
[To  Viola]  Your  master  quits  you  ;  and  for  your 

service  done  him. 
So  much  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex, 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  call'd  me  master  for  so  long, 
Here  is  my  hand  :  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 
Oli.  a  sister !  you  are  she. 

Re-enter  Fabian,  with  Malvolio. 

Duke.  Is  this  the  madman  ? 

Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same. 

How  now,  Malvolio  1 
140 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

Mal.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 

Notorious  wrong. 

Oli.  Have  I,  Malvolio?  no. 

Mal.  Lady,   you    have.      Pray  you,   peruse   that 
letter. 
You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand : 
Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand  or  phrase ; 
Or  say  'tis  not  your  seal,  not  your  invention  : 
You  can  say  none  of  this  :  well,  grant  it  then. 
And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honour. 
Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favour. 
Bade  me  come  smiling  and  cross-garter'd  to  you. 
To  put  on  yellow  stockings  and  to  frown 
Upon  Sir  Toby  and  the  lighter  people  ; 
And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope. 
Why  have  you  suffer'd  me  to  be  imprison'd. 
Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest. 
And  made  the  most  notorious  geek  and  gull 
That  e'er  invention  play'd  on  ?  tell  me  why. 

Oli.  Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing. 
Though,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character : 
But  out  of  question  'tis  Maria's  hand. 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 
First  told  me  thou  wast  mad ;  then   camest  in 

smiling, 
And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presupposed 

141 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

Upon  thee  in  the  letter.     Prithee,  be  content : 
This   practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass'd  upon 

thee ; 
But  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it, 
Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  thine  own  cause. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak, 

And  let  no  quarrel  nor  no  brawl  to  come 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour, 
Which  I  have  wonder'd  at.     In  hope  it  shall  not. 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself  and  Toby 
Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here. 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceived  against  him  :  Maria  writ 
The  letter  at  Sir  Toby's  great  importance ; 
In  recompense  whereof  he  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  follow'd, 
May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge ; 
If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weigh'd 
That  have  on  both  sides  pass'd. 

Oli.  Alas,  poor  fool,  how  have  they  baffled  thee ! 

Clo.  Why,  *  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve 
greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrown  upon 
them.'  I  was  one,  sir,  in  this  interlude ;  one 
Sir  Topas,  sir ;  but  that 's  all  one.  '  By  the 
Lord,  fool,  I  am  not  mad.'  But  do  you  re- 
142 


Act  V.     Scene  I. 
Clown.  Our  play  is  done       (page  144). 


S8J^ 


sc.  I.]     TWELFTH    NIGHT 

member  ?  *  Madam,  why  laugh  you  at  such  a 
barren  rascal  ?  an  you  smile  not,  he 's  gagged ' : 
and  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his 
revenges. 

Mal.  I  '11  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  you. 

[Exit. 

Oli.  He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abused. 

Duke.  Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace : 
He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet : 
When  that  is  known  and  golden  time  convents, 
A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls.     Meantime,  sweet  sister, 
We  will  not  part  from  hence.     Cesario,  come  ; 
For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man  ; 
But  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 
Orsino's  mistress  and  his  fancy's  queen. 

[Exeunt  alt,  except  Clown. 

Clo.  \_Sings\ 

When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy. 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate. 

With  hey,  ho,  etc. 
'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gate. 

For  the  rain,  etc. 


TWELFTH    NIGHT    [act  v. 

But  when  I  came,  alas !  to  wive, 

With  hey,  ho,  etc. 
By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 

For  the  rain,  etc. 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  beds. 

With  hey,  ho,  etc. 
With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  heads, 

For  the  rain,  etc. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun, 

With  hey,  ho,  etc. 
But  that 's  all  one,  our  play  is  done, 

And  we  '11  strive  to  please  you  every  day.  [Hxtf. 


Printed  l>y  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


14  DAY  USE 

Ireturn  to  desk  from  which  borrowed 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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LD21A-60m-3,'70 
(N5382sl0)476-A-32 


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